My Retainer!

After waking up in the wee hours of yesterday morning in searing and agonizing pain, having worked my jaw at just the right angle so that the prong of one of my upper molars nailed my freshly-crowned tooth square in the middle of its most sensitive spot during the course of my nightly bruxism, I decided that Something Must Be Done.

So I did my online research, got me to Duane Reade, and last night placed this in my mouth before going to bed:




And I'm happy to report that I did not wake up in the middle of the night crying in agony or choking to death on a half-swallowed piece of silicone-based dental equipment, nor did I have any nightmares that M. was forcing me to eat a dental guard-sized computer mouse, or a hockey puck, or a miniature rubberized chicken pot.

I did, however, suffer immediate and traumatizing flashbacks to the last time I'd worn a mouth guard, which was during my ill-fated experiment with Pop Warner football in 1987, otherwise known as the Watershed Year During Which I First Learned To Question My Allegiance to Contact Sports, Physical Exertion, Hand-Eye Coordination, Protective Cups, and the Hegemony of Western-Based Myths of Masculinity, but also to Appreciate Men with Fiery Tempers and Tight Pants.