I was that girl who, after 10 years, returned to an orthodontist’s office to have molds made for new retainers.
I looked at Alberto straight in the face in my most grown up way ever and asked for blue retainers and questioned if I should get sparkles or not because, well, I am 26 after all.
He said he thought they were cute, so I went for it.
Alberto definitely glanced at my chest too. I totally caught him. And it’s not like I was wearing some tight cleavage bearing shirt (hello? I was off to work straight after the appointment). Maybe he wanted to remind me that I’m not a kid and that I’m probably their only adult patient.
I pick up my retainers next week.
I was that girl who, after any doctor’s appointment–even the dentist–even the orthodontist–will find a coffee shop (most likely a Starbucks because hey, is anyone original out there who makes coffee?).
After ordering a nice yummy soy mocha in a size larger than I usually get because hey, I get to get blue sparkles retainers that will cost me over $1,000 (yes, you read that right–and it’s not even a fun thing I’m buying here–and yes–I do have insurance–but even after they pay what they claim they’ll pay–it’ll still be a bill worth more than a nice shopping spree for me), I start walking to my car because I’m a good girl and even though I skipped the gym these past few days I figured, I can walk a block or so back to my car sans gloves, holding my toasty drink and that can be my lame attempt at morning exercise. But wait, my shoe had to start sliding off; damn slingbacks! So, in the graceful way that I do things I gave myself a little surprise and perfectly dripped coffee down my coat and on my sleeve and yeah, all over my hand. Okay, I say to myself. Okay. The coat is black. No sweat. But as I continue my walk back to the car that now seems like a very looong way, my hands are now numbing and I realize: No, no. I can’t wait. This soy stuff will dry on my coat and how can I let that happen? And knowing full well that as soon as I get to the car that there is a napkin waiting for me in my lunch bag, I stop anyway–about a dozen parking spots away from my car. I perch in front of some still-closed-because-it’s-too-early-in-the-morning-business and I was that girl.
I was that girl who was using a maxi pad to wipe up her soy mocha which had splattered on her coat and sleeve and hand.
And I’m okay with it. I am an adult just cleaning up a mess and to me a sanitary napkin is just for that very emergency.
Luckily when I made it to the office nothing happened that made me feel like I was 13 again, getting braces and having people poke around my teeth to see what fun ugly wires and elastics and head gear they could fit inside (and outside) my head. And there, when I finally got around to eating my lunch, was my trusty napkin.
What a relief.