It's the little things...or is it?

You probably woke up today pretty much the same way you always wake up. Maybe you snoozed a bit, finally emerging from bed a little groggy, kind of cold, maybe a touch hungover (yes, I'm talking to you). Maybe you were craving coffee, or a bacon, egg, and cheese biscuit even though you've been trying to stick to your January diet of fruit and oats. Maybe you were late, couldn't find time for a shower, but instead ran some water over your face. Maybe you missed your bus, or your car wouldn't start right away. Maybe you wore that white shirt, with the black pants, grabbed your gym bag, because you planned to hit the gym right after work, but knew that you were probably going to blow that off if your coworkers even mentioned happy hour. Yea, you probably anticipated a pretty typical Tuesday.

I anticipated anything but when I woke up today.

(Ok, so I'm about to make a mountain out of a mole hill here. But it's my mole hill, and to me it's a mountain. So hear me out.)

Here's the background, and then I'll tell you why the little things sometimes mean so much.

When I was 8 years old, I was a master cherry-dropper. What's a cherry drop, you ask? Well, I would say go to any elementary school or public playground and check out what the kids on the monkey bars are doing, but I think in this day and age of over-protecting our kids, nobody's doing them anymore. A cherry drop involves a kid, some swinging, and a big area in which to land. The way it works is a kid hangs upside down on the monkey bars by their legs, swings back and forth to gain momentum, then flips upside down and lands right-side up on the ground. I usually liked to add a gymnast's fanciful flair-ending.

Aimee Cregier was my best friend at the time. We had spent many a Halloween sharing costumes (we won an award for our 3-legged hobo). We were thick as thieves, and both ace cherry-droppers. The only problem with Aimee was that she was a touch oblivious when she was on the ground. She would make a terrible weightlifting spotter.

Anyway, there I was, long blond hair nearly touching the ground as I swung back and forth, curling my arms up to make my momentum even greater. Back and forth I swang, getting faster and faster and faster, so ready to make my grand leap from the bars. I gave myself a couple more hefty thrusts just to get my momentum up even more, finally released my legs, swung up high in the air past the bar, and landed ever-so-gracefully, with my front tooth squarely landing right atop Aimee's backturned head.

Screams from both parties were deafening. I held my mouth in pain while Aimee held her head. I had hit her right on the soft spot.

Long story short, I killed my right front tooth. Aimee's head healed quickly (don't pay her any mind though, this is my sob story).

I went to the dentist. He said "I had done irreparable damage to my tooth and it would probably get worse as I got older." Yes, and he shoots puppies for fun it seems. My tooth didn't really get worse, I just got used to the fact that it was seven shades darker than the one to its left. Take that, Dr. Frame.

So, I lived with it. I figured, eh, whatever, it's not that bad (ok, I kept telling myself this). I lived with it for a long time, mostly uneventfully. I felt awkward with it, never really smiled anymore, especially not when people were close-up. My favorite noticing of it happened when I was 26, and my then-boyfriend said, "Don't worry, we can get it fixed," to which I retorted angrily, "Screw you, it gives me character!" I didn't need HIM to point out the flaws I already knew I had (take note, boys, if a girl has a scar she's self-conscious of, don't point it out, she knows it's there and wishes it weren't...although in my opinion, scars are way cool, so ladies, own them, but then don't listen to the rest of my story, so eh, nevermind).

My tooth made me self-conscious, that's all I'm saying. My good friend Paul O'Bierne in San Diego had the same problem with his front tooth, and always told me it was impossible to fix. Impossible? Yes, apparently, until I found my current dentist, who said, "No problem, we just match it to your other tooth, no problem, less than an hour, you don't even have to be numb." Wow.

So, today I got my tooth fixed. 20 odd ish years of smiling awkwardly cured in a matter of an hour. I kind of want to cry I am so happy. It's beautiful.

If you see me, you don't have to mention it. I know it looks good, and if you didn't notice my bad tooth before, well, then, I don't know if that makes you a good friend or a bad friend. Either way, I'm happy today. I feel like I can smile, and not even again, but finally. But, be patient people, figuring out how to do that is going to take some getting used to.

The little things, it turns out, like your teeth, are really more important than you'd think.