Once upon a time, I was in high school. I was a very odd, quiet kid; not very popular. Contributing to that (or not, people paid little attention to me) was the fact that I wore braces.

Okay, actually, I had braces twice in my life: once, in the eighth grade (applied by a dental school to save money) and later in my junior year of high school. To make room for these braces, some teeth would have to be removed.



(If you choose to read beyond this point, there is nothing I can do for you.)



(You sure? Okay.)



It was a sunny Monday in May. I was, of course, nervous, but what can you do? Four of my teeth had to go (and note: these were not wisdom teeth; they were normal, unspectacular teeth). As this dentist didn't have knockout gas or laughing gas (I was totally lied to by cartoons), novocaine was injected into my gums. With a needle. So, that's having four teeth pulled at an age when I'm incredibly afraid of needles. This was not a red letter day.

At two teeth down, it gets to be near the end of business for the day. Now, then and sometimes even now, I'm a little slow to catch on to things, but this clicked immediately. Sensing that I'd have to go through this excruciating pain at a future date, I begged her to continue, making for one of the few times in my life that I stood up for myself.

The pain (at least for that day) subsided, but the experience left me a little shaken.

What do I have to show for this time and money spent? A David Letterman-style gap in my front teeth. C'est la vie.