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I hate the dentist’s office.  I mean I hate it.  I don’t dislike the dentist, I am fascinated by all the gizmos, and I’m not really afraid of the pain–after years of orthodontia, leaning back in an office full of suction sounds is actually a little relaxing–but I have such shame associated with my teeth that going into the dentist’s office and opening my mouth for people to stare into is like asking someone to judge my greatest character flaws before a live audience.  Isn’t that crazy?

I had to go to the dentist this morning.  I’ve cracked a tooth and had to get that looked at.  I was talking to the dental assistant, going over my litany of, “This is not abnormal in my mouth, this is just what my mouth looks like,” and hearing myself try to make it funny, seeking her approval, and thought, “It’s just your teeth, Lane.  It’s not your soul.  Get over it.”

I’m not sure why I feel the way I do.  I brush and I floss, and my teeth are nice and even (Thanks, Mom and Dad! And Dr. Spencer!)  Part of my insecurity comes from the staining and malformations that I have from having taken tetracycline as a child–something only veneers would fix.  Part of my insecurity comes from the hereditary shape of my gumline.  Somehow I have it in my head that the imperfections of my teeth are indicative of me as a person, and somehow I have it in my head that dentists and their assistants are judging my life based on the amount of tartar buildup I have.  Nothing good about me matters because I have plaque (don’t google plaque. the images that come up are horrifying.)  I am more ashamed of having stained teeth than I am of having had a bankruptcy–and that was pretty miserable.  Note to self: Blog about the bankruptcy.

I’ve written about this before.  It’s probably one of my weirdest character traits, and weirder still because I don’t make judgments on other people based on teeth.  Just my own.

Anyway, I have to have a crown.  Those things are ridiculously expensive!  I guess if you figure in the amount of wear and tear, and the number of years you can expect to have it, the cost isn’t that high, but I can’t help feeling that it shouldn’t cost as much as a month’s rent to fix one tooth.  That’s a racket.  (Of course I realize that the dentist has overhead, and that the camera he used to take an instant picture of my tooth, which was then prominently displayed on the large, flat screen television above my chair didn’t come free.  But, I really didn’t want to see my molar blown up to the size of my whole face.  The good news is, no decay!  The bad news is, molars are ugly when they look good, and mine didn’t look good.)

I am wearing 1987 with my white, cotton skirt, hot pink shirt, and multi-colored scarf/belt.  I blame Carly Rae Jepsen, Ellie Goulding, and Neon Trees–not for the fashion flashback, but for the feeling that I am twirling through my sixteenth summer to their peppy, poppy, perfect-for-poolside music, which makes me miss the 16-year-old butt that fit into my white denim skirt, Ked’s, and the aqua and white color-blocked, Coca-Cola polo with the popped collar that I wore on my first date to a guy named N–.  N took me to Six Flags, and I realized my faux pas quickly, as short skirts don’t do well on rides that require you to straddle them, and white skirts especially do not do well on water rides.

Wow.  I hadn’t thought about this in years.  N is the only person I ever lied to about my age, and the reason I started telling boys up front that I had no intention of long-term relationships.

He was a really nice guy.  A super nice guy.  We met at work, and I lied and told him I was 18 because he was 20 and one of the best looking guys I’d ever seen–and because no one knew me there, and I could invent myself however I liked. 

N was tall and fit, with dark, wavy hair and green eyes.  I was wee, at that point, wearing an extra-small uniform.  I already looked young, but I’m sure the braces took me back another full year.  It required a lot of convincing to get him to believe I was 18, but once I had managed it, we went out for several weeks. 

When he headed back to university, I tried to break up with him using that as an excuse, and he wasn’t having it.  N was old enough to be really interested in a commitment, whereas, I was 16 and just wanted to date as many interesting boys as possible.  He assured me that we could have a long-distance thing until I graduated and I could join him at his college, and wanted me to promise myself to him in exclusivity.  After a couple of hours of this, and me trying to weasel my way out of this relationship I’d found myself in, I finally had to tell him the truth about my age.  Rightly, he was horrified.

Granted, we’d not gotten even close to anything that could have put him behind bars, but I remember him stammering, “Y-you’re jailbait!” That was the first time I’d heard the terminology.  I supposed I was.

He was dear, and sweet, and still wanted to figure out how we could stay together until I was old enough to marry him.  I couldn’t convince him otherwise, and had to get my father involved, and that was that.  But I learned a few good lessons:

1.  Don’t lie about yourself, but especially don’t lie about yourself when it comes to someone else’s heart.

2.  Be clear about your expectations up front–especially when it comes to someone else’s heart.  After N, I told just about every boy I dated–prior to the first date–that I was going to see other boys, was not going to fall in love, and was not going to have sex.  That doesn’t mean they believed me, but I was clear that my intentions were to date as many interesting boys as possible.

3.  Boys aren’t toys.  I really hurt N, and I hated that I had hurt him.  That’s how #2 came into play.  That doesn’t mean that I never hurt another boy, I did.  But I didn’t hurt them on purpose, or because I was playing with them, or lying to them for my own fun.

4.  If you can’t get a guy to leave you alone, let your father answer the phone. 

As I recall, N and I spoke a few times after my father told him to back off, but as friends.  And he did end up meeting a girl at school and falling in love with her.

“The thing that I’ll remember most about that flight is that it was fun, and in fact I’m sure it will be the most fun I’ll ever have in my life.”  Sally Ride on her first flight into space.

I don’t know why that quote delights me as much as it does.  Probably because Ride’s joy and pleasure in her work was contagious.  When did you see this woman without a smile?  I was twelve when Ride took her first flight into space, going to an all-girl school full of brilliant young ladies, whose futures were wide open with endless possibilities.  She was just added proof that yes, we could do and be whatever we wanted.  The wonderful thing about inspiration is that it is greater than death.  Sally Ride is gone, but Sally Ride’s legacy will live on.

Every segue I can think of to my next train of thought is awkward, so let’s just do this:  The Death Penalty.  I have never been a fan of it.  I think we have executed far too many innocent people for the death penalty to be considered a viable sentence to a crime.  However, in clear cut cases, such as the Colorado shooting, I think it is the only viable option.  I think you have to be criminally insane to commit a crime like that one, and for criminal insanity, there is no rehabilitation.  I don’t think it is a fair burden to the taxpayer to keep up the quality of life of someone who has attempted the massacre of a theater full of people who just wanted to see Batman save the day.  Hang him high.

Now, a few years back I’d have told you that I had moral problems with the death penalty because I would be afraid that sending someone to his/her death would be sending him/her to an eternal damnation.  I wasn’t a mother then.  A little girl, six years old, the same age as Thor, died in that theater.  Hanging is too good for him.

Hanging is also too good for Jerry Sandusky.  Hell might be too good for him.  The punishments levied against Penn State seem appropriate, though.  I’ve read some commentary wondering if officials think it worse to pay players (SMU, and their football death penalty), than to molest children (Penn State officials covering up for one of their own, and keeping the football program).  I don’t think you can compare the situations.  I do think, if you’re a college football fan, these penalties hit dead in the middle of the target.  I especially like this latest update from Reuters: Penn State [will] forfeit its share of revenues for bowl games organized by the league, and the estimated $13 million [will] instead be donated to charities devoted to the protection of children.

Chick-Fil-A

I have been eating at Chick-Fil-A since you could only find them in malls in Georgia.  I have loved their food almost as long as I have been a conscious being.  But I would no more eat at a restaurant that hung out a sign shouting, “Straights Only,” than I would eat at a restaurant that used its profits to whisper the sentiment.  I will miss those nuggets, though.  Oh well.  I can learn to make them.

The Colorado Shooting

Thor asked me about this.  You know how Jesus said that we would always have the poor with us?  Well, we’ll always have the criminally insane with us, too.  There will always be people who enjoy inflicting pain and suffering, and there will always be victims of those people.  If we ever encounter such a person, I told Thor, we must keep our heads and be calm, and we must not let fear get the better of us.

Gun Control

Bull.  I will always come back to this:  Making it harder for the normal people to get guns does not keep you safe from the nuts and criminals who are looking for a way to wreak havoc.  I am not personally interested in owning guns, even though we do.  However, I am very personally invested in the idea that private citizens’ rights to bear arms must be upheld.  I do not want to live in a place where the only people allowed to carry weapons are the police force and the military.

The TomKat Divorce

Why is it that I fall in love with Tom Cruise’s wives the moment they leave him?