There was a crooked man and he walked a crooked mile,
He found a crooked sixpence upon a crooked stile.
He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse.
And they all lived together in a little crooked house
This, of course, says nothing about the man’s crooked teeth – but you know he had them. As do I. I am afflicted with my mother’s small jaw and have a sufficient number of teeth on the bottom so as to make things crowded. And now, restless.
We had our semi-annual dentist appointments this morning [and, for once, Mr.Q came away cavity free] and I mentioned that my teeth felt rather disquieted. They are antsy. On the move. And not in any sort of nice military straight line either: they are meandering. Or jockeying for the most comfy position in case they want to stretch out fully. I’m not entirely sure.
Either way, my smile is now taking on more of the crooked fence appearance. [My back and my cat are other stories entirely]. So I hesitantly asked about what could easily be done about them. I’ve been through braces. Three years of braces. And these damn teeth went right back to where they started. Now, that they are bent on even further mutiny, I’m not inclined to go to insane, expensive and ugly measures only to lose the battle once again.
Fortunately, I’ve been informed that there is a retainer option – for the errant bottom teeth only – that will most likely be accepted by my medical plan [note: they have not yet actually asked my medical plan yet…]. Damn brilliant. How can I argue with this? We can get these little buggers back in line and then keep them there with an occasional bit of reinforcement.
If I can’t be rid of the “bit of extra weight” that, as my mother told my sister, I am carrying around, then I can at least dazzle the populace with a precision smile.