Saturday, 20 February 2016

Brace Yourself

I really didn't think I'd be wearing braces at the grand old age of 47, but there's no mistaking that I now have a mouth full of metal.

A little bit of vanity goes a long way and a tentative enquiry to see if my top, front teeth could be straightened flagged up a whole load of horrible issues that only two years of upper and lower braces, a bridge and permanent wiring would fix.

Adult orthodontics aren't cheap, so in my debt-ridden state I've been very lucky to have been graciously funded by the Bank of Mum.

I'm three days into this and although it feels like I've got Lego glued to my teeth, I'm sure it'll get better. I'm conscious of every word, laugh and smile, and every tiny bite of food I try to sneak past the portcullis, worried it'll become welded to the wires.

This afternoon I bumped into our neighbour's kids on the stairs and had this conversation with one of their friends:

"Ooh, you've got braces! How old is your dog?". I tell her that he's 13.

"Is that dog years or human years? Is he 100?". I explain that it's human years and in dog years he's probably about 77 because he's quite a small dog.

"Imagine having braces when you're 100!" Oh, good grief, where is she going with this?

"But you're in your 30s, so that's still okay."

I love this kid, even if she does appear to need her eyes tested. Momentarily, I even lost my self-consciousness enough to laugh through my Lego.

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