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Broad’s Eye View

 

J.ALL
OP Columnist

We meet again. Last time we chatted |
may have mentioned that | would be talking
about myself and basically anything that
catches my fancy. Well, | am also going to
discuss my afflictions, namely my diastema.
Sound it out D-I-A-S-T-E-M-A. Not exactly a
pretty word, but | prefer it to gap-toothed,
which is essentially what | am. | have had
this extra sliver of space between my two
front teeth for as long | can remember.

| recall the first day | became hung-up
over it. It was fourth grade and | was pathet-
ically in love with a grotty boy named Scott.
We were sitting in the library and he told me
he was going to draw a picture of me. Oh,
how very romantic. | noticed he was filling
one area of the paper with an awful lot of
pencil lead. When he was finished he slid it
over and there it was. A terrible drawing of
me and with a massive gap between my
front teeth-I looked like a hillbilly beaver. |
responded by ripping it into little shreds and
calling him a homo. | didn’t really know what
homo meant, but it seemed appropriate at
the time.

From that day on | developed a bitchy
smirk and an aversion to men named Scott.
No more open smiles for me. | was con-
vinced my teeth were hideous and would
guarantee my virginity throughout high
school. Luckily | developed breasts and a
fondness for tight shirts. | got dates, | got
laid, but | still hated my teeth.

For my high school graduation gift, my
parents offered to have my teeth bonded.

My mother made the appointment for the
morning after the grad party. Due to circum-
stances beyond my control | never made it
to that appointment—as the grad night
included an episode of drunken skinny-dip-
ping gone horribly wrong, but that is for
another time. According to my insane moth-
er, my window of opportunity had closed
permanently. If | wanted the bonding done |
would have to pay for it myself. At eighteen
| had alcohol and skanky clothing to buy. |
never managed to save up for the dental
work.

Over the next ten years, | basically came
to terms with my roomy grin. When Twin
Peaks made tying a cherry stem with your
tongue all the rage—I kicked ass. My space
was like an opposable thumb—| could tie a
stem with such dexterity | rarely had to pay
for a second drink. I’ve had guys tell me
they think it’s sexy and I’ve had women ask
me why haven't | fixed that thing in my
mouth. Now, men will say anything to score
and women are bitchy—so what's a girl to
believe. | have wavered back and forth for
years, until recently when | decided to
check out a new dentist, whom a friend of
mine recommended.

As | entered the swanky West End office,
| suddenly felt extremely self-conscious. As
| was led to the chair to wait, | noticed that
the walls were plastered with before and
after shots of gums and teeth and lips. | had
been duped. My ‘friend’ obviously had been
lying her ass off every time she told me she
liked me ‘just the way | was. No matter, |
hated it when she said that and it made me
feel guilty as | hated many things about her.
Now | could add one more thing to the list.

The dentist came in and dove right into
my mouth. Not even a hello, how are you.
He was only at it for maybe a minute before
he sat back and stared intently at me. By
this point | was feeling oddly violated and
the staring really wasn’t helping.

"You're a pretty girl, good symmetry, nice
mouth."

He spoke loudly and almost accusingly. |
had no idea what to say so | waited.

"But those teeth ruin you. Really they do.
Why haven’t you considered doing some-
thing about this before?"

It was like the fourth grade all over again.
| hotly pointed out Madonna, David

Letterman and then for some reason,
Ernest Borgnine. He was unmoved and |
panicked. | couldn’t leave it at Ernest
Borgnine, he wasn’t exactly renowned for
his good looks. | used my trump card.

"What about Lauren Hutton. She refused
to close her gap and look at her!"

He sighed and shook his head, "They all
throw Lauren Hutton in my face. Are you
a gorgeous, blond model who can act?"

Obviously | was not, so | held my tongue.

“Let me put it to you this way. If you had a
big hairy mole on your face, would you
keep it there, even if Madonna or Ernest
Borgnine had one?"

Cheap shot. Of course | wouldn’t. If my
teeth were as disgusting as a hairy face
mole, | wanted it fixed, now. As luck would
have it, he just happened to have time to do
all the measurements, x-rays and photo-
graphs immediately. | numbly followed him
to the other room where the ‘assessment’
would take place. Over the next two hours
a troupe of militant dental assistants (don’t
ever call them nurses—trust me on this
one) subjected my mouth to a series of hor-
rific assaults. When it was over the dentist
came back in and shoved a sheet of paper
in my hands and sent me on my way.

| hardly remember getting home. | sat on
the edge of my bed and finally looked at the
paper; $6,500 is what the good dentist
decided it would cost to make me presenta-
ble. If my jaws hadn’t hurt like I’d spent the
afternoon on Kingsway performing two-for-
one blow-jobs, | would have laughed.
Instead | cried. And then, like an asshole |
went to the mirror and smiled at myself. |
turned that smile left and then right and
then face on again. Not exactly a big hairy
mole, but definitely not pretty. | thought
about $6,500 and then | went to the closet,
got out my nicest bra and snuggest shirt.
Bitchy smirk intact, | surveyed the results in
the mirror and made my decision. So
maybe | can eat corn on the cob through a
picket fence and maybe my smile won't
inspire men to paint me or write me poetry.
But really, | just don’t trust a man who can
look past a rack and concentrate on a little
extra space between a girl’s teeth. Cherry
anyone?

broadeyeview @ hotmail.com