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Three 50-word stories about getting Invisalign® braces in my 60s.

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Before During After
I had very-visible metal braces in 1986 when I was 29 years old. 35 years later, on September 30, 2021, I got new-fangled, Invisalign® braces to re-straighten my teeth. Recommended by a friend, I got them at Zaytoun Orthodontics, and the estimated time to complete my treatment was 6 months. Being the overachiever that I am, I finished in 4 months. I swear that the biggest contributor to that was using bite sticks many times a day (instead of just the recommended 3 times), because it was a satisfying substitute for biting my fingernails, which I could no longer do. I got retainers on February 3, 2022, which I’ve now been wearing for 3 years. I’ve only forgotten to wear them 3 nights (unsurprisingly, each after a night of drinking) over those 3 years, and I’ve never once done the proverbial accidentally tossing of them into a McDonald’s trash can.
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Working two jobs and being judged

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I started a new job as a business analyst in a food-testing lab. I came into the break area with my lunch, and I could tell by the looks from my new, skinny colleagues that they approved of neither the amount of mayonnaise nor the mound of shredded cheese on my deep-fried chicken sandwich.

“Just so you know, we have broiled chicken sandwiches in our cafeteria,” they offered helpfully.

I explained, “I got this one at Burger King, the temporary job I had before landing this one, and where I still have a commitment of 2 more shifts before my employment ends.”

“I didn’t know Burger King hired business analysts,” one of them meowed.

“I’m not a business analyst there. I’m working the line slinging Whoppers®—some even special ordered with extra mayo, add cheese,” I hissed back. “It was my first job 45 years ago while in high school, so it all came back to me very easily, and I was immediately promoted to ‘the front board,’ where the very best sandwich makers are assigned.”

Theater-related dream

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I’m in one of those tiny university or community theaters with about only 10 rows of audience seating, and the play begins. The actor with the opening lines is not projecting very well, and the person in front of me turns around and hisses, “Turn it up!” To which I respond, “I’m a patron, not part of the stage crew.”

A minute or so later, in this opening scene, they turn up the house lights for some effect, during which a patron walks in late and takes the empty seat on the other side of the guy to the right of me. The late patron says loudly to the guy between us, “Hey! Is it Red Hat or Cisco that you work for?” to which the man whispers, “The show has already started.”

In the opening scene of the next act, a character is lying in a bed, and all of the other actors are looking at her. Nonplussed, she eventually stammers, “I’m thinking of a number…,” and another character says, “2014,” which I recognize as the Unicode representation of an em dash. Then the actor begins her part, and I realize that she had forgotten her lines and was asking for a line number in the script to remind her where they were.

It’s intermission and everyone except me leaves the theater for concessions or to use the restrooms. After about 2 minutes, no one has come back, and an usher comes in and says to me, a little annoyed, “That’s it. We’re stopping now.”

An easy-on-the-eyes eye doctor

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I had a 7:40AM appointment for my annual eye exam. Each year when I see this doctor, he takes my breath away. So devastatingly gorgeous. He sits very close to me, as he does every patient, for the tests he is performing. I find the entire experience so homoerotic.

His face is on the other side of some contraption that is currently covering my eyes. He points to his left cheek and says, “Look here at my cheek.” I’m thinking, You don’t have to tell me to look at you. Then, “Okay, up here at my forehead.” Too late; I’m already looking there. I’m looking at every inch of you. Following your every move. Look at those lips.

I imagine for a moment that there is no machine between us, and the proximity of our faces is exquisitely realized—and magnetically charged—for me. His lips are so close to mine. His thick, brown, trimmed beard and greenish-gray eyes right before me. He re-adjusts the machine now and pulls his chair up closer. Now my knees are together, and his are spread open and the outside of my knees touch the inside of his. Electric. No detectable awareness on his part.

That feeling comes over me that there is no doubt that being gay is biological. My body is responding chemically. He has no clue that he’s having this effect on me, and seems like the type that isn’t aware that he most likely has this effect on most women. Which makes him even more magnetic.

Look into my eyes. Yes!

He is asking me how bad I want this stye on my eye to go away. And then says, “For me, apply this ointment…” and I’m thinking, I’d do anything for you. “Give me five minutes with a hot compress on it two to three times a day…” he goes on. You can have five hours, five days, five lifetimes.

I start to feel like Fanny Brice and Rose Morgan. “Nicky Arnstein, Nicky Arnstein, Nicky Arnstein.” I want a mirror with two faces in it—his and mine.

Paying my bill, I eye the huge family portrait above the desk on the back wall. Seven kids. He’s so virile.

Hey Mr. Arnstein, here I am.