The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

Dentures, Christmas Songs and Wishes

"Dentures, Christmas Songs and Wishes" 

I often dream of losing my teeth. I had a dream interpretation book a long time ago which actually attempted to explain this very common theme, but I forget what it's meant to symbolize. I think it alludes to an impending death, or something on those lines, but despite my fascination with new age subject matter, dream interpretation has never really taken.

I've seen my grandmother's dentures fly across a crowded mall after they became stuck in a hot dog. When she tried to show us before anyone noticed, my mother clumsily knocked my grandmother's arm, sending the mouthless teeth flying. I was truly mortified when she walked over to them, having stopped after a bout of frantic spinning, and picked them up and jabbed them back in, without so much as a dust off. It was a good incentive to keep brushing regularly.

M. has often spoken with pride over the fact that his mother had all her teeth intact. I found that incredible, especially since she was English. I'd watch her mill through a sandwich in awe, wondering what sort of stock she'd been made of, this impenetrable woman with the strong teeth and withering stare. Imagine our surprise when M. moved her into her last residence and opened her trinket box to find her 'perfect teeth' enclosed in a baggie within. Oh, the dillusionment! M. was embarrassed, but not because he was looking at a set of dentures in a box. He could not believe that he'd never known that his own mother had been able to conceal something so well that he'd ardently believed that she was 'intact'. Not long after, when she was having some health issues, her caregiver called M. to ask some questions about her medical history. He answered as much as he could before the woman innocently enquired about when she'd had her mastectomy. Her what, sorry? he'd asked in confusion. The woman went on to explain that she could plainly see that his mother had undergone a radical double mastectomy at some point in her life, but when exactly was it? M. was dumbfounded. This was news to him.

People keep secrets about themselves for all sorts of reasons and they're always important to whoever chooses to keep them. What I find interesting, though, is the way we try to hide who we are. I am someone who never leaves the house without makeup on my face and I am completely inflexible on this point. It doesn't matter that I've been told I resemble a porcelain doll without it (I think it was meant to be a compliment), I feel completely hideous without. I feel like my eyes take over my face, in a bad way, that my eyebrows are a bushy, army green. Every flaw, every blemish, every chicken pock scar...it is inconceivable to me that anyone would voluntarily leave the house in that state. Same goes for hair. I have to style it every day, and if I don't go to the bother of the iron (whether flat or big, rolling curls), I try to find a way to put it up so that it looks deliberately 'messy'. I will not wear clothing which might cling to my extra bits, cannot begin to understand the people who buy clothing which is two sizes too small which only serves to accentuate their rolling fat. I wear a lot of black because of three reasons: 1)it's supposed to be slimming, 2)it matches just about everything and 3)I think it balances sex and seriousness rather well. Mostly, though, it's the slimming thing. I don't feel as though my teeth are white enough, so I rarely smile in pictures. Either I take on a very severe pose, one that I think makes me look provocative but only makes me look as though I'm experiencing a bout of constipation, or I grin without opening my mouth which looks forced and unconvincing. At the risk of appearing too needy or eager, I also take on the disposition of someone disinterested in everything around me, which causes people to assume that I am completely unapproachable and self-obsessed. What you are left with, then, is a version of myself that I do not recognize, but I am in here, and it's warm enough.

M. once told me that he prefers me without the makeup or the hairstyling, so sometimes, when I am in the mood to stay in, I let the hair dry naturally, with a kinky tilt in the back strands and ringlets framing the face, and I let the face breathe freely. I almost always feel guilty about it, even though he appears to be comfortable with it, because I am self-conscious, having been raised by a woman who also would not leave the house without makeup or hair done, the Dr. Frankenstein of this whole glamourous obsession. These are the days where my hands move nervously over my face, where my fingertips search for the dry spots and imperfections. I have to say it took me a while to feel uninhibited enough around him to let him see me 'naked'. Now, though, after having given birth in front of him, I'm less concerned about my unpainted face. This does not mean I will expose strangers to it, though.

Clothing, shoes, hair and general appearance do say a lot about a person, I think. An attitude might be measured by height of a heel, the sexuality of a woman set by the intensity of red on her lips. In turn, any sort of displeasing attribute might be viewed as something unfavourable about the woman herself, like dentures showing improper hygiene habits or excess weight symbolizing gluttony. Both presumptions are likely unfair, but this would not stop the onlooker from making them. Most people would do whatever they could to hide the evidence, like dressing in clothing which might hide the extra lumps and bumps, or keeping the fact that they wear dentures to themselves, and I can't blame them for it. I'd nurture the myth too, if not for them, then for me and my ability to believe what I tell myself.

It's sometimes exhausting, trying to keep up with all the things which are supposed to make us more attractive, and yet it seems vital most of the time. Like M's mom, I'd probably leave out the details too. Why bring attention to the truth when knowing it isn't going to change a thing, except maybe your perception of who I am. I'd rather we just carry on without full disclosure because at the end of the day it has nothing to do with anyone else.

Of course, a couple days ago, I was looking through a box in the basement, a Russian, hand-painted box full of his mother's late-life treasures. It was a curiosity thing, a 'snooping' thing, because it was there, in front of me and I had to look inside. As my hand moved along inside, moving over bobby pins, empty compacts, playing cards and old letters, it came to rest on something unfamiliar: her dentures.

Further evidence that looking to unlock someone's personal secrets will only come back to bite you in the end.