My Husband’s Teeth
My husband has terrible teeth. They are large, which is not a bad thing in itself, if they weren’t also crooked. The bottom teeth, especially so. He has a big beard so you don’t see them often; but now and then you’ll catch a glimpse, and there they are, huddled against each other like a line of sloppy schoolchildren ready to be led to the playground. His teeth though, have never bothered me much. In fact, his teeth were one of the things that attracted me to him. I’ve always been strangely attracted to teeth imperfections. We’re not talking missing incisors or meth mouth here, okay. Just slight to moderate imperfections. I’ll take a front tooth gap or tipsy bottom row over a fluorescent set of veneers any day. So, I was taken off guard when my husband informed me one evening after a routine dental check up he was considering braces. It’s not that I was opposed to him getting braces, but I was surprised that at almost 50 years old he felt like this was something worth spending thousands of dollars on.
He showed me a pamphlet the dentist had given him with clip art style smiling lips and colorful shapes; most likely designed by his son as a school assignment. ‘What to Know About Adult Braces’ it read across the top. What intrigued me the most was the term ‘Adult Braces’ What constitutes the ‘adult’ clarifier, I pondered? Are braces for people over 18 any different? My question was never answered as the flyer consisted of no real information on adult braces, but instead offered clichés like ‘have the smile you always wanted’ and ‘look great in pictures.’ It was promptly stuffed into a junk drawer or perhaps tossed in the trash and eventually forgotten about along with my husbands dreams of straight teeth
A few months later I found myself staring at another flyer. This time on a bulletin board at Starbucks. It appeared to also be designed by the dentist’s son. ‘Child and Adult Piano Lessons’ it read in purple bubble font across the top. I bought a piano several years ago, as I learned how to play when I was young and was inspired to pick it up again, but never really did. This is just what I had been looking for, I thought. Adult piano lessons. I ripped off one of the tabs that hung like fringe at the bottom of the flyer and walked away with my coffee wondering, just like with the adult braces, how adult piano lessons would be different then the child ones.
I started my first lesson the next week with Dolly, a jolly woman who I’m guessing is in her 7os, although its hard to tell, because people aged 70–90 all kind of look the same to me. During my first lesson Dolly and I filled a little time with small talk. I learned she also teaches painting (the adult kind, not the shitty kid kind.) After my lesson, I asked her how many adults she taught, genuinely curious. “Oh, you are my only one,” she replied with a smile, exposing a snaggletooth that made me melt. She continued on quickly, “but I’ve had plenty of them in the past,” as if to make me feel better for being her only adult student.
I was 4 months into my lessons when Dolly told me about the recital. I had just finished playing the song I had been working on for weeks, Greensleeves. I nailed it. Dolly clapped for me and gave me a chocolate from the little glass candy dish she kept on the top of the piano. “I’m having a recital for all the students at the end of the month,” she said her lip catching on her snaggletooth. “I think this would be fantastic piece for you to perform.” A curly haired girl, named Mckenna, whose lesson is after mine, arrived a few minutes early and was sitting on the floor behind us in the splits while waiting her turn. (McKenna takes child lessons not the adult kind.) I wonder if she gets chocolates when she plays a piece with no mistakes or if Dolly only does that with her adult students. “I wasn’t sure if you would be interested…”she continued hesitantly. “You, know, well….” she trailed off for a moment, looking over at McKenna. “I didn’t want to leave you out, either.” she smiled. ‘Okay, let me think about it,” I said, popping the chocolate into my mouth.
“So, should I play Greensleves in the recital? ” I asked my husband who was sitting across the booth from me at the at the brewery we like to go to on Friday evenings. I was truly conflicted. On the one hand I thought it would be fun, on the other hand I would be performing with a bunch of kids in front of a bunch of parents who were all likely younger than me. “Hmmm,” he sighed while glancing at the menu. I couldn’t tell if he was pondering my question or deciding on the burger or the cheesesteak. “What do you want to do?” He said without looking up at me. I hate when people answer a question with a question. “I don’t know what I want to do, that’s why I’m asking you.” I said, annoyed. I took a sip of beer, waiting his response when our server arrived, “You ready to order?” he looked at me eagerly, holding his pen like a dart above his notepad. “Yes,” I said handing him the menu. “I’ll take the adult chicken tenders.”
