BRACING MYSELF

I had braces as a kid, and it was a nightmarish two years. Me and my orthodontist, a mustachioed man named Rodney Bloom, were mortal enemies. He hated me more than I hated him. Bloom took off my braces early just so he wouldn't ever have to see me again.

Several years ago, I noticed I had a molar that was out of whack. It doesn't look bad on the outside, but on the inside it occasionally cuts into my tongue. (How it can only bother me periodically and not all the time is a mystery.)

Last year, I asked my dentist about fixing it, and he said it wouldn't be worth it; Inivisalign would run me over four grand.

But then I got my current job. Where I've not only got medical, dental and vision — I've got a small amount of orthodontic insurance too. Blue Shield will pay 50% (up to $2000) of any orthodontic procedure. $4000 to fix that one tooth wasn't worth it... but $1000 is.

I decided I'd try to find an orthodontist who bought a big new house about two years ago with a sub-prime mortgage... who also has a gambling problem. I'd say to him: "I've got a thousand in cash and a thousand in insurance — if you can fix my tooth for that, we've got a deal."

Though she doesn't have a gambling addiction, I found an orthodontist who agreed to do it, but there was a catch. It bothered her that none of my back teeth don't meet properly. For the two thou, she'd fix the tooth that bothered me... and the teeth that bothered her. Great — I've got an orthodontist with OCD.

So decades after Bloom signed his unconditional surrender and tore the braces off my teeth, the metal's back on. The good news is that they're mostly out of sight (as they're on my back teeth), but the bad news is I've got rubber bands to deal with.



And as if it's not emasculating
enough to be in braces again,
here's the bag that the rubber
bands come in.