I am turning 60 in January, and in doing so face a series of existential questions. Am I doing all I can to prepare emotionally, intellectually and spiritually for my future death? Is my financial house in order, with my will and estate thoughtfully planned? And of course most importantly: should I be getting braces?
Those who think the latter question pales in significance obviously haven’t witnessed my choppers from hell. To say my teeth are merely crooked and yellow is an injustice to the negativity. And the culprits aren’t just a few upper incisors: I have my own oral Civil War going on, with the North and South waging a fierce battle for Quien Es Mas Squaloros.
And my masticaters aren’t just disgusting in a vacuum, they put a damper on my whole face. Presently my mug is an amalgam of counterbalances, with the massive nose offset by the deep set eyes and fullish lips. But just when the facial scales start tipping to the positive (the strongish chin, sexyish cleft, cuteish dimples), the terrible teeth invade the equation, careening my overall from an 8 to a 5.
But with the miracles of modern science (braces, surgery, boatloads of whitening stuff), I could quantum leap back to the 8 I had before teething. No more traumatizing the viewing public every time my lips part. No more slamming my mouth shut when my picture is taken. The question shouldn’t be should I, it should be why didn’t I before?
So why do I hesitate? Part of it is alluding to my first existential question: isn’t there just something spiritually suspect about trying to look younger when I’m getting older? Is getting “work done on my face” at the age of 60 raging against the dying of the light or merely an avoidance of the need to face and embrace my mortality? Do I really want to get all dressed up with nowhere to go?
And more importantly, let’s say I do successfully surgerize and peroxide my way into some pearly whites--do I really want my teeth to go from poor stepchild to star of the show? People could still be distracted from my sexyish cleft. And let’s not forget the cosmetic slippery slope--I start pulling the trigger on fixing my teeth and soon I’ll be getting a hairpiece, tummy tuck and breast augmentation.
Then there’s the money/estate deal. Sure I’m a bit ahead financially (after marrying and inheriting well), but I need to remember the inscription on my parent’s pillow in their den: “Money isn’t everything but it does keep the children in touch.” I start doling out dough for braces and breasts and before you know it my daughter doesn’t call and I have grandchildren living on the street.
Obviously I need some perspective, and as I often do when decisions arise, I look to the lessons of history. Certainly great men and women lived and died for centuries without changing their appearance when they aged. Then again Tom Cruise re-did his teeth and did Mission: Impossible III; George Washington kept his lousy teeth and only had two terms in office.
So maybe embracing braces is the way to go. I’m not planning on dying anytime soon, and even when my teeth can’t chew they should still be able to sparkle. And if I happen to spend a little too much in the process, I’ll at least insist on an open casket where mourners and orthodontists alike can appreciate the handiwork.
Those who think the latter question pales in significance obviously haven’t witnessed my choppers from hell. To say my teeth are merely crooked and yellow is an injustice to the negativity. And the culprits aren’t just a few upper incisors: I have my own oral Civil War going on, with the North and South waging a fierce battle for Quien Es Mas Squaloros.
And my masticaters aren’t just disgusting in a vacuum, they put a damper on my whole face. Presently my mug is an amalgam of counterbalances, with the massive nose offset by the deep set eyes and fullish lips. But just when the facial scales start tipping to the positive (the strongish chin, sexyish cleft, cuteish dimples), the terrible teeth invade the equation, careening my overall from an 8 to a 5.
But with the miracles of modern science (braces, surgery, boatloads of whitening stuff), I could quantum leap back to the 8 I had before teething. No more traumatizing the viewing public every time my lips part. No more slamming my mouth shut when my picture is taken. The question shouldn’t be should I, it should be why didn’t I before?
So why do I hesitate? Part of it is alluding to my first existential question: isn’t there just something spiritually suspect about trying to look younger when I’m getting older? Is getting “work done on my face” at the age of 60 raging against the dying of the light or merely an avoidance of the need to face and embrace my mortality? Do I really want to get all dressed up with nowhere to go?
And more importantly, let’s say I do successfully surgerize and peroxide my way into some pearly whites--do I really want my teeth to go from poor stepchild to star of the show? People could still be distracted from my sexyish cleft. And let’s not forget the cosmetic slippery slope--I start pulling the trigger on fixing my teeth and soon I’ll be getting a hairpiece, tummy tuck and breast augmentation.
Then there’s the money/estate deal. Sure I’m a bit ahead financially (after marrying and inheriting well), but I need to remember the inscription on my parent’s pillow in their den: “Money isn’t everything but it does keep the children in touch.” I start doling out dough for braces and breasts and before you know it my daughter doesn’t call and I have grandchildren living on the street.
Obviously I need some perspective, and as I often do when decisions arise, I look to the lessons of history. Certainly great men and women lived and died for centuries without changing their appearance when they aged. Then again Tom Cruise re-did his teeth and did Mission: Impossible III; George Washington kept his lousy teeth and only had two terms in office.
So maybe embracing braces is the way to go. I’m not planning on dying anytime soon, and even when my teeth can’t chew they should still be able to sparkle. And if I happen to spend a little too much in the process, I’ll at least insist on an open casket where mourners and orthodontists alike can appreciate the handiwork.
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