Mid-Life Maintenance

I suck the saliva shimmering in my mouth and swallow. "Whoth idea wath thith?" I ask M. He commiserates with a sympathetic smile and cuddles me in his arms. I let a few tears slide on to his shoulder. "Thith ith mitherable," I lisp again.
"Ag, Pops, I feel for you," he commiserates once more.

I see the sympathy in his eyes. My mouth already hurts and my lips bulge over the braces that will be resident on my teeth for two years. It's not pretty. I know it. And I see it in M's eyes. My husband doesn't lie to me. And I love that about him.

As unattractive as the braces are, it's the retainer I have to wear for the first two months that is the worst right now. It causes a speech impediment and saliva collects between it and my palate. I'm lisping and swallowing. My daily word count has dropped drastically. I say as little as possible.

Eating is a sad experience: soft food, slow chewing, and little conversation. But it's the food collecting between the retainer and my palate that grosses me out. I'm done. I whip out the offender in the bathroom, rinse the food off it and leave the retainer languishing alone on the counter.

"But you've got nice teeth" and "There's nothing wrong with your teeth" were common comments from friends when I shared about my mid-life maintenance. Yes, I know, but it's all thanks to a toffee and being a teenager.

I remember the day twenty plus years ago. A history assignment was due. I chewed a toffee, a Toff-O-Lux to be precise, while I worked on the assignment in the William Cullen Library at Wits University. Crunch! I bit into a filling and the part of the tooth that the toffee had successfully broken off from the back of my mouth. There wasn't much of my molar left standing. The dentist decided to pull what was left of the tooth. And that was that. Until now.

Twenty-four years on, my bottom teeth have slowly been slipping into the cavity, and my top teeth are moving too, as the structure of my mouth is compromised. If I want teeth I can rely on in my later years, I should correct it now.

I finally finish my dinner.
"I'll clean up," says M. "You go clean your teeth."
I do.

"That took long. I was going to come and look for you," M says when I finally join him in the kitchen.
"Not another morsel of food is passing my lips tonight," I reply.
"Are you wearing your retainer?' he asks.
"No, I couldn't face it after the saga of getting the food out of my braces."
"Oh, that's why I can understand what you're saying," he replies.
"Yes, and when you see me do this," I pull my lips into a forced smile. "I'm not smiling. I'm resting my cheeks from the metal brackets that are cutting into them."
"Ag, Pops," M says again, "I feel for you."

I'm feeling pretty sorry for myself too. I'm mourning the festive food I won't get to eat this Christmas season and the lipstick I won't be wearing because it marks the clear braces on my top teeth. But on the upside, soon I'll look dynamite in that form fitting black skirt and that is something to smile about or, at least, rest the inside of my mouth about.