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Monday, January 17, 2011

Why I Hate Growing Up: Volume One

Friends, there is something I need to say. You may know already, but you may not. Despite everything awesome about me, I have a cross to bear.

You know that game when you have to meet a bunch of people so you ask them a load of questions to try and gain insight to their personality? Things like "If you could be an animal, what animal would you be?" or "What's the first thing you would do if you were invisible?" (An otter, and trip my enemies in the street so they would get embarrassed, incidentally.) Well, another of these questions is "What physical trait would you change if you could?", and 1000 times out of 1000 I would say my teeth.

"But Aaron!" I hear you cry. "Your teeth are wonderful! You have a winning smile! Colgate Approved!"

To the casual observer, I would have to agree with you, yet only through your ignorance on the hell-mouth I possess.

For starters, they're straight because I had braces early on in life. I have no trouble admitting that my teeth ahave had a supporting cast, and my orthodontist Dr. Huffman did a hell of a job. Off in under two years, and he fixed a mean overbite.

Secondly, I inherited "porous teeth", which apparently means that if I eat anything other than distilled water I'll get a cavity. Thanks anonymous parent.

Thirdly, and most important to this little entry, is that I hate the dentist. Whether it was through constant trips of agonising pain, or the necessity of constant trips of agonising pain, I now despise them. Not fear them; this is important. I don't much like making a haircut appointment because I have no idea what will happen between now and then. But if someone gave me a room full of anonymous dentists - hell, if someone gave me a room of ANYONE and merely told me they were dentists - I'd be hard pressed not to brick up the door and have them fight it out for the last breath of air. Then I'd shoot the survivor. I don't care how nice you are, you are psychologically chained to my mind as the harbinger of Novocaine. I even know a dentist, but I know him as Ted, the supergenius husband of my mom's wild friend from high school, not Ted "DRILL YOUR FACE" Dentistman.

Putting this to one side for a moment, I'd like you to imagine the following scenario: Every 6 months, a man will come to your door and punch you in the stomach, from the age of 4 until you die. (This man is a bigger bastard than a dentist if he hits a kid in the gut, but I digress.) Then, one magical day, around your 18th birthday, someone says to you "Listen, if you want these stomach punches to continue, then you'll have to pay for them from now on." If you agree to it, then I don't know how you got out of your padded cell, but well done.

This is how I view my whole "fix my teeth" thing.

But, despite brushing my teeth twice a day for the last 12 years, my cursed maw is rebelling, and has sent me this: (WARNING: NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART)



So, you win this round. After many years of procrastinating (possibly 10, I lost count), I have had to book an appointment for this Thursday at 2:20pm, then a guaranteed follow-up and fix-up after that (because even an idiot could tell you what a rotting tooth looks like.) But that's what kills me - no matter how hard I try to prevent it, my teeth are terrible.

And that's why I hate growing up.

By The Way: If you are seeking the next generation in music listening, I highly recommend Shuffler.fm for its ability to pick out music blogs according to genre. It's being called the Future of Radio.