Gone are the days of believing I was born to live in the bustling city of New York strolling up and down Park Avenue clad in designer items on my way to see the latest Broadway play.
Gone are the days of feeling like I've escaped becoming a townie or a Kansas hillbilly.
Gone are the days of believing I am too glamorous for good ole' Shawnee. Sometimes called "a backwards town" (by those who don't live here and know its true inherent value, by the way), it has a reputation of being old and rundown. But it's not.
After years of looking at some Shawnee citizens in our local grocery store and thinking, "I hope I'm not like one of those," now I definitely feel like one.
You see, I was born with a mouth full of messed up teeth. A late bloomer when it came to absolutely everything in my life, I was still losing my baby teeth as I entered high school. And then we were informed that there were three baby teeth I would never lose....because no adult teeth developed to replace them! I'M DEFECTIVE!!! Anyway, since I was getting older, we were advised to put braces on my teeth (including the baby ones) to straighten out my mouth. Later, the baby teeth would wear out and I would have to get fake ones. So, entering high school with a mouth full of braces that resembled a roller coaster (I'm not exaggerating--I literally had teeth all over the place), my self-esteem was immediately shot to the ground before anyone else had any chance to do it themselves. It was super. But I survived.
Fast forward 6 and a half years later to this week. My teeth are straight, white, and hurting. The baby ones, anyway. Their time has come to leave the nest. They've done their time and I've worn them out. So my mom took me to the oral surgeon to have one of my upper teeth removed. I was practically peeing my pants as I waited for the surgeon to stick my gums with that huge-a** needle so that he could put a pair of huge-a** pliers in there to yank out a tooth. Before he stuck that huge-a** needle in my mouth, I almost jumped out of the chair and screamed, "You don't have to do this! I can bear the pain for the rest of my life! Don't stick me with that thing!" But I didn't. Because then I remembered I was 21 years old (not 8) and should be fully matured and capable of getting a baby tooth pulled. Well I got the baby tooth pulled, but I'm not convinced I'm fully matured. Late bloomer, remember?
Anyway, ever since I've had this tooth out, I can feel a hole in my mouth. And I don't feel glamorous. At all. And I feel like I either got into a townie bar fight at Johnny's Tavern (here in good ole' Shawnee) or that I'm a hillbilly who drunkenly let one of my friends pull out my tooth like in The Hangover. You can't see the hole at all, but I'm my own worst critic and demand perfection at every turn so I know it's there. And I? Don't. Like. It.
Sure I'm going to get a fake tooth soon and sure you don't know it's missing unless I show you OR laugh obnoxiously loud with my mouth wide open.... soooo who cares? No one, that's who. NO ONE CARES.
So now I just have to get over it. Over this feeling of being a hillbilly. But I doubt I will. I'm officially one of those Shawnee citizens. Super.
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