On Friday evening, after shoving half the medicine cabinet down my throat to ward off the pain caused by braces, Marty and I got dressed and headed out to meet our friends Eric and Colleen at Scrimshaw, the Desmond Hotel’s 4 diamond restaurant. Although my mouth ached like I just came out of my fourth round in the ring with Mike Tyson, I wasn’t missing out on a complimentary gourmet meal with great friends. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I just said “complimentary”. See, Colleen is the credit manager at the Desmond and every three months she’s responsible for being the weekend manager on duty. Along with the not so pleasant tasks this job entails (catering to unsatisfied guests, dealing with power outages, etc) Colleen enjoys some perks -- one being dining on premises and being welcomed to invite guests to join her free of charge.
With live piano melodies filling the short silences between our chatter, we enjoyed our meal on the house.
Phase 1 - Wine
Phase 2 - Appetite Enhancer
Phase 3 - Assorted Sweet and Savory Breads (not pictured)
Phase 4 - Lobster Ravioli: Fresh Maine lobster meat folded with drawn butter and lobster mousse, encased in fresh parsley and squid ink pasta
Phase 5 - Desmond Salad: Raddichio, romaine, Boston bibb and red leaf lettuce topped with sliced mushrooms, mandarin oranges, sliced almonds, cheddar cheese, dried cranberries, cherry tomatoes, and creamy garlic dressing
Phase 6 - Lemon Sorbet (not pictured)
Phase 7 - Filet Mignon with Raspberry Risotto, Zucchini, and Carrots
Phase 8 - Bread Pudding drizzled with English style custard
Phase 9 - Coffee
Phase 10 - Almond Cookies
Phase 11 - Roses for the well-fed ladies!
Phase 12 occurred when we returned home, laid our heads upon the pillows and fell into a long and deep food-induced coma!
So after months of weighing the pros and cons, I had braces installed yesterday morning. And I don’t use the word install lightly. I was by no means looking forward to wearing braces for twelve months – especially at the ripe age of 29, so I dreaded that aspect of the ordeal, and I knew my low tolerance for pain would have me wringing my fingers during the entire two hour installation. But what I hadn’t considered was how dreadfully uncomfortable they would feel once adhered.
After rising from the dentist chair and looking into the handheld mirror that was shoved before me by the hygienist, I was met with nothing short of a downright scary reflection starring back at me. My lips were swollen and to my absolute horror, I looked like a 15 year old. One would think I would be pleased to appear younger than my years, but when a freshman approaches you in the bookstore on the first day of class and asks what dorm you live in, or when a door-to-door window cleaning salesman comes ringing your bell and asking “Are your mom and dad home?” (true stories) you don’t want to add braces to the equation. There is no way one can appear professional, attractive, or anything other than adolescent while sporting a set.
Once the initial shock wore off, the pain set in. I quickly learned that every teen I had talked to about their braces had boldly lied to my face “Oh, it doesn’t hurt that much” and “You’ll get used to them within hours” rang through my ears as I huddled against the arm of my couch gnawing bite full through throbbing bite full of soggy cereal. Within a matter of seconds I had gone from looking like a 15 year old to looking a 15 month old as I slurped up each bite, dribbling milk down my chin and stopping at intervals to remind myself how to maneuver the substance across my tongue and down my throat.
Last week I found myself sitting in a dentist chair. Jim Croce’s gritty voice rained down from the recessed speaker above...”If I could save time in a bottle…” It was 8am and I was in no mood to hum along. The previous hour had found me leaning against the shower tile breathing in the steam rising from each cascading drop of water; my hand reaching for the regulator, turning it up, and up, and up again until the skin on my chest was blotchy red and the water heater had given me all it had left. Later I stood half clothed beside my open closet as my newest favorite song played its third rotation on repeat and stared at each article of clothing hanging listlessly on its wire, waiting for the right combination to pick me. Alas,I was left with seven minutes to make the eleven minute drive across town to the chair I was now sitting in. There had been no time to brew coffee, which meant I was at the dentist and I was un-caffeinated. Sour combination.
As a drill droned in the adjoining cubicle, I stared off into the tacky 80s artwork that adorned the wall before me…and waited.
A young girl who looked fresh out of dental school walked in clad in Disney scrubs. Good morning… (Pause. Look down at chart.) … uhh… Carrie. How are you today?” she asked in a tone that left much to be desired. Mickey and Minnie must be for compensation’s sake, I thought to myself.
“Are you excited to get your braces put on next week?”
“Yea, uh, not so much,” I responded.
She smiled weakly and began to scan the green and white computer screen beside my chair. I looked on disinterestedly:
Records For: H., CARRIE L.
Excessive crowding / recent crown-tooth 31, sens. in same tooth
Bracket teeth 31 + 18
Metal clinked against metal as the hygienist fiddled around in a drawer in search of the perfect tools for the job. I continued to scan…
Slight overbite / Invisalign candidate, but not recc’d.
Age: 29 yrs, 11 months
My heart leapt to my throat. Age: 29 years?!?!
“Okay, honey, I’m gonna’ sit ya back and put your spacers in. They’ll make room between your molars for the bands we’ll connect the archwire to when your braces are put on.”
The whine of the electric powered chair rang in my ears. I sank lower. My breathing quickened. My left eye twitched. 29!? I screamed inside.
The hygienist’s masked face entered my periphery: “This'll be uncomfortable for a while, but you’ll get used to it.”
Age: 29? How is that possible? I could have sworn I was 28. I’ll be 29 on my next birthday…right…? Thoughts flashed to a disagreement I had gotten into two years prior with a friend who was born three days after me. He said we were 27, I thought we were 28. We did the math. I had been wrong.
I had been wrong before… could I be wrong again??
The hygienist tapped my chin with her long, blue-latexed fingers. My signal to open. I craned my neck and lowered my jaw. She reached for the overhead light, twisted it on its swivel and tugged it into position. It squealed with every jerk. 29!? “29 yrs and 11 mnths.” That means I’ll be 30 in twenty days!?! My pupils contracted. I blinked against the iridescent glow, wondering if I had remembered to floss before leaving home. The heat from the bulb radiated off my forehead and cheeks. The wheels of the hygienist’s stool dragged against the carpet on each rotation as she drew nearer. The stench of stale cigarette smoke hung in the air as she reached over me. I opened wider.
29!?
*****
Thirty. Thirty-one. Thirty-two. Thirty-three. Thirty-four. Thirty-five. Thirty-six. I counted each foot fall as it came down hard on the rubber conveyor of the treadmill.
Counting things is something I do. As a child, I would count the telephone wires that hung across the road. Sometimes on short rides across town I would pretend I had long stretchy arms; I’d imagine swinging from one wire to the next like a monkey swiftly swaying from branch to branch as we passed beneath. I couldn’t let my feet hit the ground.
Counting things is something I do. I count the fruit in the basket, the remaining rolls of toilet paper in the linen closet, the messages in my inbox. I count cars. I count stars. I count days.
How had I miscounted my own years? I thought as Ipushed down hard against the button on the treadmill. The buzz of the machine grew louder as the incline increased. Thirty-seven.Thirty-eight. Thirty-nine. Forty. Forty-one. Forty-two. Forty-three. Forty-four.
*****
“45 mins and 58 seconds” the screen on the treadmill read. How had I miscounted my own years? I slammed my hand hard against the “Stop” button. The buzz slowed to a soft hush and then stopped altogether. I wiped by shirt-sleeve across my face. It came back wet. I reached into the compartments on the machine, grabbed my cell, and stepped off the padded surface. The solid floor beneath me felt like air; I, like a monkey swaying swiftly on the breeze.
As I headed toward the locker room, I swiped the phone’s screen. The illuminating glow read “One missed text from Meggie.” That’s it – Megan! We had grown up together, counted things together: the days until fifth grade graduation, the days until our senior trip, the days until her wedding day, and the days until her son’s due date. She would know better than any dentist’s database. With clammy hands, I texted “Omg… I am freakin’ out. Am I going to be 29 or 30 this November?”
In the locker room, I paced the floor with phone in hand, kindly averting my eyes as a woman in her late 70s brazenly stripped down to her wrinkly skin and strode toward the nearest shower stall. I jumped when the phone sounded its familiar tone. I took a deep breath as I lifted it to read her response…
“29,” it read.
Exhale.
As I stood at the sink washing the sweat from my hands, I wondered why the thought of 30 had upset me so. I guess the brief (albeit erroneous) knowledge that I had lost a year made me feel as though I had been robbed of the most precious thing I have: time. As the warm water poured over my fingers and swished down the drain, I stared up into the mirror and promised myself that I'd do my best to make the most of my 29th year.
Goals for My 29th Year
Take my vitamins every day
Cast off my aversion to running on land
Increase my endurance so that I can run a full loop on the cart trail on my neighborhood golf course with Joey at my side
Participate in the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure
Replace at least six of the eight windows on our second floor
Lose five pounds
Get braces put on and taken off
Go snowshoeing at least twice (snow conditions permitting)
Maintain the motivation to really “do” my hair no less than once per week
Visit Maine or Cape Cod
Hike three mountains
Get an SLR camera
Begin my own business or obtain a job that will enable me to build a career
Pay off at least $4,700 of my student loans
Get back in touch with an old friend
Finish renovating the basement
Visit Marty’s sister in NYC
Try my hand at least one new recipe each month
Capture at least three moments in photographs that make my heart skip a beat
Read one book that I absolutely cannot put down
Grow grass in my backyard that is plush and green and fun to walk on with bare feet
On Friday evening, after shoving half the medicine cabinet down my throat to ward off the pain caused by braces, Marty and I got dressed and headed out to meet our friends Eric and Colleen at Scrimshaw, the Desmond Hotel’s 4 diamond restaurant. Although my mouth ached like I just came out of my fourth round in the ring with Mike Tyson, I wasn’t missing out on a complimentary gourmet meal with great friends. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I just said “complimentary”. See, Colleen is the credit manager at the Desmond and every three months she’s responsible for being the weekend manager on duty. Along with the not so pleasant tasks this job entails (catering to unsatisfied guests, dealing with power outages, etc) Colleen enjoys some perks -- one being dining on premises and being welcomed to invite guests to join her free of charge.
