from the mouth of (anything but) a babe

If I’d married a dentist, would the root canals be free? I’m kidding, of course. I’m no more likely to marry a dentist than a construction worker or rock star because, simply, I’m not the marrying type. But I could become the type, temporarily, with the right incentive. Like free root canals.

Once again, rather yet again, I’ll soon find myself in a dentist chair for work that may be intensive and costly. I am the Dental Queen. I’ve had more work done in this one lifetime than most folks have in 10. It’s the way of the world, err, my world, and having known no different since age 6, when it all began, I know it’ll continue sure as I know the sun’ll rise tomorrow. I’m at peace with the title of Dental Queen, and the fact that I inherited my father’s, what,  challenged teeth —  is that what they’re calling it now in politically correct circles? (Like I care.)

My sister and mother, they got the good teeth. If either gets a cavity, it’d make the annual Christmas circular, if either wrote one. Ditto for me. A simple cavity would make my day, no month, no year! But that hasn’t occurred in years and it ain’t gonna and I’ve made peace with that as I’ve made peace with the inevitability of war in humankind.

Now I must depart and flirt up a storm with the first unmarried dentist I find. There’ll be no exchanging of gold wedding bands but a one-sided gifting of a gold crown.

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