Perfect Teeth

Maybe you've been hiding under a rock... But I was born in Cuba..

As a young girl growing up in San Francisco and Miami, I dreamed of trips to Africa and far away lands.

Instead, I got a yearly trip to Cuba where there are no lions (or any other pets for that matter), because they've been used to feed the people.

During our first decade in this wonderful country, we were so broke we ate cheese and ketchup sandwiches for dinner and a water heater was a luxury we didn't know existed.

FAST FORWARD TO MY MID-TEENS...

I was blessed with clear skin and strong legs from my mother's side of the family. From my dad's team, I inherited beautiful almond shaped eyes with extra long eyelashes that people often pull because they're certain they're fake. From both sides, I was blessed with teeth looked like this:

As I entered high school, I found myself being treated like a fly on a wall in a room full of butterflies. It was time for drastic measures.

As any teenager, the idea of two years laden with social awkwardness and no making out as a result of braces terrified the acne out of me. Yet the thought of looking like this for a lifetime:

Was simply too much to bear.

One day, I decided to bring the idea of braces up to my mother, knowing the answer was a certain no.

Me: So... Did you see how pretty Penelope's teeth look after the braces.

Mother: Uh-huh.

Me: I was thinking... Maybe I could get braces too.

Mother: What for?

Me:

Mother: They're not that bad.

Me: Mom...

Mother: Well you know we can't afford that, my love.

Me: Okay. (insert sad face here: ___________)

Mother: But you know? My cousin is a dentist in Cuba. You can do it there.

And so it was settled that in three months I would be getting braces in Cuba at an illegal clinic that performed at night time with zero anesthesia at the hands of cousin Beatriz.

There isn't much to say about the experience except anesthesia is probably the most underrated drug there is. Also, getting braces in a half-dark room full of roaches as salsa music plays in the background while someone holds your feet down is the bravest thing I've ever done.

Five hours and half a bottle of Havana Club later, my braces were on and ready for their close-up.

Two years later, I traveled back to Cuba feeling happy and anxious at the thought of a beautiful smile. When the day finally arrived and the braces came off, a giant mirror was placed in front of me and I slowly raised myself to what was surely to be a pleasant surprise.

And a surprise it was.

The smile was perfect. Perfectly stained with a bad reaction my front four teeth had to the adhesive used, staining them a lovely shade of gray.

There was no consoling me. And no fixing the atrocity that became my permanent "constipated smile," a tight lipped attempt at representing happiness I perfected for a whole year, as I saved a shitload of money for porcelain veneers.

After last month's tragic drunken episode, I fondly recalled the days as a teenager when a few crooked teeth ruined my life for years and I didn't possess the confidence to not give a shit.

Maybe I have far more imperfections than I ever did as a younger girl these days, but when horrifying things happen which surely diminish my already not-so-good-looks, I take them in stride.

Because I'm too old to focus on things like a tiny bald spot or a boob that's bigger than the other. Because life's too short to try and emulate the photoshopped robot on the cover of Cosmopolitan. Because I'm lazy, and I'd rather put my hair in a bun than spend an hour blowdrying it. Because I hear that nothing in life is perfect. Not even my teeth.