Cavities and Toothbrushes

My toothbrush busted recently. Not a grand tragedy, but it's been more of a pain to replace it than what you'd think. When I'm driving home, my one thought is: Bed. MMm... bed. Bed now. When I get home, there's not a lot of thought between the door and pillow. Somehow, I always think, yeah... toothbrush... Tomorrow. Now, yay pillow.


The next morning, I sit there with my IronMan t-shirt and bedhead, trying to form thoughts. Ugh. Need toothbrush. So, what to do? Get dressed, go to the store, find a toothbrush, deal with people, go home, change back into pjs, brush teeth? Pfft, no. I'll just get one on my way, the next time I go in.

But the next time I head to work, I'm running late. It's all highway until downtown, so there's not really a place to just stop. And the stupid cycle continues...



I admit, I have stooped to using my brother's brush. He's not home, it's relatively clean, and what he doesn't know really, really helps me. It's not a perfect solution, but it gets the film off my pearlies.



I need my own. I know I do; I'm just not sure when that'll happen. I'm not even really sure why it's a problem. I mean, it's a toothbrush, right? It doesn't get much more mundane and necessary, and the fact that I've thought about it at all is more noteworthy than anything else.


But I think I've been pondering the wondrous lack of toothbrush more recently because a friend of mine passed recently. His name was Bob, and he was a cool dude.


It's crazy, right? Here I am contemplating no toothbrush, and the steroid-enhanced white elephant in my head is the fact that less than 5 days ago, I was a funeral for someone I was talking with 5 days before. 10 days. 10 days ago, I had a toothbrush on the fritz, and a friend I thought would live for years yet.


Bob'd been sick, but he didn't talk about it. He was too busy being quiet with his solemn eyes and Roy Rogers smile. He would sit on the couch as our group of friends talked each week, watching as if he could see each word created as thought. And the most he spoke was the week he died.

He talked of how he'd pushed through his entire life because he was scared to death of failing. He spoke of lush green golf courses, saying he'd only ever played one person that beat him more than once. He said he couldn't stop, he couldn't not be perfect. He was broken and yet stronger that week.

He talked of his boys, of what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. His eyes lit up when talked about teaching troubled kids how to play golf. He was beautiful. And I couldn't wait for the Sunday following that Wednesday, so my best friend could meet my new friend I'd known for weeks.

But he was gone on Friday.

And I have trouble finding time to get a new toothbrush.

Stupid, right? I know, my toothbrush is not magic. It's not going to make my friend re-appear, or give him a healthy life. Me not getting one doesn't do anything, either. Morning breath does not breed magic, and won't help me make any new friends. But God surely knows, I'd rather deal with a hole in my teeth than the peculiar, empty space Bob's absence's left. There's no trip to the dentist to fix this pain. It sucks, and it surprises me at weird times how much it hurts.

Logically, it shouldn't bother me so much that I miss him. I miss getting to know him. I miss being able to count on being able to see him. I hurt because I was really excited about talking to this person again – and he’s just... not there.

But the fact remains, however mysterious and unknown he was, he was my friend. And he's gone now.

So, now I deal with the hole my departed friend has left. I just bite the bullet and get the toothbrush.. and I accept that life is a semi-broken smile.

Cool v. Honest

I recently heard the comment by a cool, post-modernist speaker that it’s harder for people to lean into what they’re good at, rather than what they’re not. For instance, if you compliment someone, even if the person knows they’re good at whatever it is, more than likely, they’ll downplay it. No, no, I’m not all that great, they’ll say, it’s not that big a deal. The person who made the comment then continued, if you know you’re good at something, if you’ve been gifted at something, saying you’re not isn’t humble; it’s dishonest.

I was a little stunned when I heard this, because my first thought was, but… everyone does that. How is it dishonest? But even asking that was silly, because I’ve done it so often, I know it is. I know when I say I’m not great at something, and I am, my ethics twinge. I tell myself that I’m just saying what other people my age say, or that it’s just the way that we communicate – but it’s still a lie.

So. I lie. To fit in.

And that’s not unique or hip. It’s certainly not worth lying about, or for. In fact, it’s kind of sad, and the exact opposite of the oft-stated post-modernist idea that we are all worthy, wonderful, and fabulous because we’re unique and different; because we’re honest – with ourselves, about our selves, and the world we live in.

According to Merriam-Webster’s definition, post-modern can be defined as “of, relating to, or being any of various movements in reaction to modernism that are typically characterized by a return to traditional materials and forms (as in architecture) or by ironic self-reference and absurdity (as in literature).”

I can honestly say I excel in ironic self-reference. And because I know that, it beats my ego like a MMA champ with a heavy bag that I’ve allowed myself to be less than honest for no other reason than I wanted to be like everyone else. I tell myself I don’t care what other people think; that being a freak is ok, or at least, doesn’t bother me; that I don’t expect anyone else to be like me, or me like anyone else, because that would be boring. But, then I lie to be like someone else so I won’t feel quite so unique and alone.

My little, easier-on-the-ego lie becomes a habit, something to say to fill the space; and I become lesser for it, thinking I’m really cooler because of it.

Why?! Because I want to have friends and be liked. Because I can only stand my own company for so long. Because silence is terrifying.

Because love is not easy.

To be honest requires accepting vulnerability, and accepting that I have accepted the lie of invincibility. It means standing in the middle of my broken toys with my dirty hands and wrecked life and not making excuses. It means apologizing for when I am too vain to be truthful.

I could continue in my denial, thinking that it’s just a phrase, or that I’m being hip by brushing off compliments. But denial’s never worth the effort it takes.

Honesty, on the other hand, always is.

And given the option between being deniably cool or honestly broken, I’ll take the second. The first can’t be fixed, and the second, well, that’s just a cool place to be.