18 years ago, I went on a date with the cutest boy in the entire world.
I knew he was the one for me after that fateful date.
Not because he was smart, funny and interesting. (He was all of those things.)
But because after I fell down 150 feet head over heels down the side of a cliff in the Smokey Mountains, he cried. He cried because I was alive.
Bloody, beaten to hell, and missing a tooth, but alive.
Then he drove me to the dentist.
And the ER. And got my prescriptions filled.
Sat on the toilet while I scrubbed tree bark out of my legs in the bathtub.
Slept on the other end of a sectional with me.
And never laughed when I whistled while I talked.
|The good old days of me with my original tooth|
My accident was bad. Three broken or chipped teeth, lots of goose eggs and scrapes so bad that the ER nurse thought I had been in a motorcycle accident. I still have scars and at least one spot where I am pretty sure I chipped the bone on my knee. The bright side was the quick confirmation that I loved this boy with all my heart and our relationship moved up a level. Three months later, we were cohabitants in a new town.
18 years later, I am still dealing with those damn teeth.
This morning, I went and got the news that I need a metal screw put into my jaw and a new front tooth.
Not what I really wanted for Christmas (or for 6 months after, which is the time line for the entire process).
The brightside is that after 18 years, three crowns, two surgeries and a lot of not biting things with my front teeth, I will have a very nice front tooth.
That is the end of that story.