When I was 4 years old I couldn’t blow a bubble to save my life. So it soon became the mission of all the neighborhood kids in our quaint close-knit suburb to help little Karith Foster blow her first bubble. We did everything—after pre-k tutorials, weekend workshops in the clubhouse – but nothing worked. My friends were disheartened and I was devastated. I thought there was something seriously wrong with me. Or as we say in Texas, that I was “special.” Well, turns out, that wasn’t the case; nor was it the case of my friends being incompetent teachers. It seems that Yours Truly was attempting to blow gorgeous masterful bubbles with the only product my mother would allow me to chew. Nope, I didn’t have access to Bubble Yum, Double Bubble or Hubba Bubba like the other kids had.
Nooo! Un-uh! I had a piddly teeny-weeny tiny piece of the gum that 4 out of 5 dentists recommend. That’s right I had sugar-free, cavity-fighting, spearmint-flavored Trident. And that tiny piece of gum gave me a complex for years! Years I tell you!
A little piece of happy my ass! Now I’m not casting blame. I get it. My mother, who I love dearly and who loves me more than chocolate, was trying to be a “good mom.” But I think we all know that the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Her loving attempt to keep me cavity free instigated much more psychological distress than a visit to the dentist for a few fillings ever would have caused. You want to know the sick twisted part of all of this? I actually liked going to the dentist as a kid.
Still do to this day. I’m not saying it’s natural, but if lying in an overly well lit office with my mouth held unnaturally wide open while someone with a medical degree scrapes, pokes and prods my gums all in the name of dental hygiene is wrong—then gosh darn it! I don’t want to be right!