Toothquake

College Drop-off Perspective What’s Your National Park Story?

Toothquake

Back in June I started a new vanity project – realigning my once-straight teeth that had, along with every every other g-d body part thanks to aging, started to rebel against their landlord. On went the unanticipated “tooth anchors” and over those went the Invisalign trays and up went the pain factor every Wednesday, when I crack a new pack of trays to wedge over my – yes, I can see it a little now that I’m nine weeks in – slowly straightening teeth.

What I neglected to tell you is that for 20 minutes every day, I have to sit with what looks like some sort of a fetish device in my mouth, micro-shaking my teeth into place.

This little “dental accelerator” consists of a rubber mouthpiece that you bite down on gently, and a vibrating handle that is so smart that it a.) gives you a signal when you are halfway through the 20-minute allotment and b.) has a USB port that allows the orthodontist to see exactly when and how long it was in use, via an Excel spreadsheet that I have to print out and bring to my appointments. It’s not like flossing, in other words, which I tell the doctor I do every single day when we all, I assume, understand that to mean “every other week and only after eating corn.”

On July 27, according to the data, my toothquaker shook for about six hours when it was buried deep in my luggage on a coast-to-coast flight. The good news is that my spreadsheet stats look AWESOME and if the orthodontist gives out any kind of prize for overachievement, I’ve got it in the bag. The bad news is that someone at the TSA probably thought it was a far different kind of vibrating device.

Anyway, my mouth shaker is supposed to complement the Invisaligners by micropulsing the teeth into their new position faster, and make the whole thing less painful. So says the orthodontist, and because like Agent Scully I want to believe, I have used it religiously for the past two months. Even if it means causing episodes of convulsing laughter for various family members.

I used it when I was helping care for my dad in July, when every night in the guest room at my parent’s house saw a different sibling or niece staying in the twin bed across from mine. The day my sister walked back into the guest room to get something and saw me sitting there obediently, mouth vibrator rattling away, she fell down laughing to the floor, got up, dusted herself off, and then fell down laughing again. The cycle probably would have repeated for another half hour or so if the doorbell hadn’t rung.

When I finally got home again in August and fired it up for my 20-minute session one Sunday morning, it was the first time my husband had seen me use it. “You can’t talk when it’s in?” he marveled, the grin spreading wide on his face as I understood he was fixin’ to rev up the Contrarian Statement Engine to 11, because I had no way to rebut. I tried to make the flare of my nostrils do the talking.

I often use the device when I’m at my desk writing, since I’d probably be clenching my jaw in silence around that time anyway. The problem is that the device makes the tip of my nose micro-shake, too, which means I’m constantly reaching up to tap my nose like some sort of new nervous tic.

So here I am, clenching down on a rubber grip, shaking my mouth, flaring my nostrils, scratching my nose, and complaining about tooth pain.

Do I look younger and cuter yet?

Catching these guys with Tallest Man on Earth at the Greek in Berkeley in October, can’t wait!