You Have Short Teeth

Constructive criticism is the worst thing to have ever been invented.

Seriously. There are so many rude, insulting things that you can say to a person, so long as you categorize them under the umbrella of “constructive criticism.”

“Rhonda, I think you’d run faster if your legs weren’t covered in so much grotesque, mammoth-like hair.”

“Deb, if you put effort into your appearance, you might look like a young Tim Allen.”

“Stu, the way you play the trombone has me wishing I’d been born with artichokes for ears…may I suggest some more practice?”

Leg hair insults, B level celebrity-inspired facial insults, and musical insults…all “perfectly acceptable” if packaged as constructive criticism.

If you can’t tell, I HATE criticism. Of any kind.

You think I laugh too loudly?? How about a foghorn to your ear?

You don’t like the way I chew? Well I don’t like the way you don’t chew.

You think I have poor taste in music? WELL…yes. Broadway show tunes and deep track Alanis Morrisette songs are not for everyone.

If I could choose between unlimited praise and one golden nugget of constructive criticism, which do you think I’d choose? Exactly. I’d flush that little nugget right down the toilet and put on sunglasses to shield myself from the blinding praise.

The source of the criticism doesn’t really matter. The Queen of England could tell me that I’d benefit exponentially from eating more English crumpets, and – instead of being amazed that the Queen deigned to talk to me, or interested in picking her brain for a crumpet recipe – I’d be irrevocably hurt and damaged by the fact that she took issue with my eating habits.

Yesterday, I learned that my distaste for criticism even extends to the medical fields.

Yes. The dentist hurt my feelings.

I’ve written before about my long-term relationship with my pediatric dentist. Ew, you pervs, not the dentist himself. I meant the establishment. Although I’m not going to not say that my pediatric dentist didn’t have a little sumpin’ sumpin’. (Cavities. Those are what he didn’t have.)

Anyway, going to my pediatric dentist started to get weird. I would walk in, all twenty years of me, and moms would stare at me like I was the office harlot. My dentist would ask me how high school was going and sometimes I’d stoop so low as to tell him I was “really loving biology.” It was bad.

So, this week, I decided it was time to make the shift. I got the number of a big girl dentist, and I made an appointment.

Let me preface this story by saying that I was unaware I had booked an appointment for a full scale cleaning. When I called last week about a tooth that was giving me trouble, I’d somehow also managed to arrange a full appointment. (How you could mess up a simple scheduling task like that is very unclear.)

At the pediatric dentist, they make you brush your teeth before the cleaning. Probably because kids are gross and will lie to you about having brushed their teeth, when really they just stuck a dry toothbrush in there and then proceeded to “accidentally” swallow a frog and wash it down with Kool-Aid. You never know what kind of amphibian activity you’ll find in a kid’s mouth…

Having just come from work, I expected the secretary would point me in the direction of the “brush up station.” When she didn’t, I asked her if I could brush up, since I hadn’t had time to do so, beforehand. She looked at me like I’d just told her I hadn’t brushed my teeth that day, and had actually been using mayonnaise as toothpaste for the last twenty-one years.

“I think you’ll be fine,” she said, confusedly.

Good.

My new dental practice is run by a South Korean family. The two dentists are married, and the hygienist is their daughter. She wears braces and is very nice. (She’s not 14. She’s 25. I see how that could be confusing.) We bonded over the little things, like how we both love the color purple and were worried it would rain that day. Things were off to a good start.

But then came the X-rays. I never knew myself to be particularly afraid of radioactivity, but it turns out, I am not a fan.

Every time she shoved the thing in my mouth that is responsible for the image capturing (a technical description of the process), I would wince and accidentally knock it out of position. At first, this was amusing to her.

Ha, look at this adult woman wincing like she’s taking tiny cream pies to her eyeballs, she was (probably) thinking.

But then, I could sense her growing dissatisfaction.

“You need to stay still,” she said, in a harsher tone.

I felt nervous, and wished there was someone there to offer me a copy of Highlights magazine and a sugar-free lollipop.

When we finished the X-rays, the hygienist took a long, hard look at them.

“You have short teeth,” she said.

Huh. I wondered if she meant they were short, relative to a vampire’s? Or if she meant “short” as in grumpy…like, “your teeth are being short with me, tell them to cut it out!”

“Is that bad?” I asked.

She explained to me that if I were a big, tall man, the roots of my teeth would be very long, and my teeth would be very stable. But, since neither of those things is the case, my teeth are not long, nor stable.

Huh. She hadn’t really answered my question.

“So…is something bad going to happen to my teeth? Do I need to do anything?”

“I’m sorry, there’s nothing we can do. It’s nature.”

Wonderful. So here I am, with all thirty-two of my “short teeth,” thinking that these little shits are going to be the end of me. Death by short teeth. Unique, but not at all compelling.

“You never had braces, right?” she asked.

Actually, my short teeth and I had engaged in FOUR YEARS of brace-wearing. FOUR YEARS. And, even after I’d had my braces removed, I continued to wear my retainer ALL DAY, EVERY DAY, well into my junior year of high school:

(This is a photo of me, with my friend Alison, and my retainer, in France. Can you imagine someone sitting at a café in France, poised to eat a crepe, but first having to remove her retainer and put it in its case…at a café table…in France…)

I couldn’t believe that it wasn’t immediately obvious that I’d had extensive dental work. Although I suppose these are the results you get when your orthodontist was a toupee-wearing Star Wars enthusiast that only communicated via Star Wars metaphors…

After questioning my orthodontic history, it came time for the hygienist to find the source of my discomfort.

“Does it hurt here?” she asked.

“No.”

“Here?”

“Nope.”

“Here?”

“Ow, ow, yes that’s it!”

“Oh, so it hurts when I do this?” she asked, as she vigorously tapped against the sore spot with a metal tool, like she was communicating via Morse code.

“Yes, yes it does.”

“So, let me be clear, this spot, this one right here, where I’m tapping, the one right here, is painful?”

No, actually! You cured it! Thanks SO much for that vigorous tooth massage.

“Yes. That is the spot.”

“Ah ha!” she exclaimed. “I solved it!”

“What? What is the problem?” I asked.

“You have receding gums.”

I was reminded of the poster of “Dental Anomalies” I’d seen in the office’s lobby, upon which “receding gums” was listed as number four.

The hygienist explained to me that I’d been brushing my teeth too “vigorously” and had damaged my gums to the point of no return.

“Wait, so even if I fix my brushing technique, my gums won’t ever go back to normal and I’ll always be in discomfort?”

“Yes,” she said. “It’s like a bad restaurant – once it’s bad, you never go back!”

My damaged gums are the Chili’s of teeth.

I knew that brushing with a chainsaw was probably a bad idea, but it was such a time effective technique! This is what I get for trying to save a minute or two.

“You’ll just have to avoid hot and cold foods and beverages,” she said.

Good to know. So now, when I go shopping at Whole Foods, I’ll head straight to the “lukewarm food” aisle. I think it’s between the Chia seeds section and the hemp nightgown section.

“Okay,” I said.

Like a fool, I thought that my short, damaged teeth had received all the criticism they were going to receive that day.

But then, it came to the hygienist’s attention that, in addition to being fun size, my teeth are also very thin.

I can’t say I hate the idea of having thin, petite teeth. It’s probably the only time I’ll ever be warned about having something that’s “too thin” on my body. It’s very French of me, isn’t it? Waif-like teeth are all the rage in Europe.

“You’re going to need to stop using whitening toothpaste,” she said. “It’s like rubbing sand on your teeth.”

For the last four years, I’d been spending hundreds of dollars on a certain brand of whitening toothpaste, when I could have been using bottled sand from the reservoir near my house. These are the little things that a pediatric dentist will just neglect to tell you. (That, and also that the tooth-cleaning wand isn’t actually called a “Winnie the Poo Stick.”)

By the time the dentist finally arrived, I was fully aware of my shortcomings.

To re-cap, my teeth are:

1. Short
2. Weak
3. Short and weak
4. Crooked
5. Thin

She took one look at my X-rays, and then said, “You never had braces, right?”

When you leave the plush confines of pediatrics, you lose the major perks, like temporary tattoos and cookie dough flavored fluoride.

But, you gain the gifts of perspective and constructive criticism. And those are the gifts that keep on giving.

Just kidding. I still hate criticism.

So, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go invest in a nice set of wooden dentures – functional, and great as a Halloween accessory!

Good luck criticizing those!

Playing Hardball

This weekend, I learned a thing or two about shopping for cars, and a thing or twenty about my parents.

When I’ve shopped with my mom and dad in the past, we’ve been on the hunt for things like plants, or towels, or “decorative throw pillows,” or discounted lawn chairs, or, “the perfect end table for the living room,” or, “the perfect end table for the family room,” or, “the perfect end table for the dining room.” (My question is, what happened to all of the first halves of tables?)

For the past several weeks, my parents have been trying to find me a car that I can drive to and from work this summer.

Until beginning this project, I was under the impression that buying a car was like buying a pair of really durable socks – you want something protective and functional that is also comfortable and sweat-wicking. But, you also want something flashy that says, “Hi, hello, HERE I AM, WORLD!”

Creative expression and sweat-wicking. Those were my car-buying criteria.

I was also under the impression that I would be able to drive up to any dealership, pick out a car, name it, take a bunch of selfies with it, and then drive off into the sunset.

We are now almost a month into the process, and the only selfies I have are of my face next to strangers’ vehicles that I thought were for sale but really weren’t.

It turns out that buying a car is a process. There are important details that need to be considered carefully, and there are tactics that need to be implemented with finesse, and there are things like time and energy that need to be devoted to the process…

What was supposed to be a brief process has morphed into a month long ordeal. In other words, we could have purchased about ten end tables in the same amount of time that it has taken us to “look for cars.”

So, this past weekend, we decided that action needed to be taken.

Actually, my mother decided that action needed to be taken. She said that my dad and I were not being “action-oriented,” and that we needed a “concrete plan of attack,” and that we had to “buckle down and get shit done.” Were we preparing to purchase a car or to enter a medieval battle? I’m not sure.

She did have a point, though. The process was becoming grueling and unproductive.

Let me preface this story by saying that my dad is a car expert. I don’t mean that he just collects little toy cars and reads car magazines once a month (both of which he does). I mean that when we walk into car dealerships, dealers lift their heads and say, “Hey, Mike!” Dealerships are my dad’s candy stores.

Let me also preface this by saying that when my dad and I try to make decisions together, we look like two chickens that are locked in a hall of mirrors. We get confused, and distracted, and my feathers fall out from stress.

For example, here’s what it’s like to buy ice cream with us:

“Dad, what should we get?”

“I don’t know, how about vanilla?”

“Ew, I hate vanilla.”

“Okay, get chocolate.”

*Sophie and Dad stare aimlessly at the glass case, in contemplative silence*

“Fine. Wait, what if mom doesn’t like chocolate?”

“Get Oreo, then.”

*More staring. More silence.*

“One time, Lydia had Oreo and she said it gave her gas. What about mocha?”

“Soph, get the peppermint, it’s on sale.”

“What is this, Christmas? I hate mint. I’m getting mocha.”

*Sophie and Dad continue to stare in confused silence*

“Wait, maybe we should get steak tips, instead?”

*Two hours later, the entire family ends up skipping dessert and going to bed because Sophie and Dad couldn’t make a decision*

So, you can imagine why the car purchasing process would be a bit *delayed*.

Let me also just mention that my parents – for some reason – like to go car shopping on Saturday mornings…which come after Friday nights…

So there we were, Saturday morning, driving to yet another car dealership. I was guzzling water out of an industrial sized bottle and eating Wheat Thins crumbs that I found in a plastic bag in the back of the car, while my mom laughed at me and said, “Someone’s had better days!”

When we got to the dealership, I was prepared to stay in the car and to have my dad consult with the dealers. Why try to insert myself into something I know nothing about? (That’s mature person speak for “My butt feels really comfortable in this seat and also, I need more water.”)

But then, it became clear that my participation would be necessary. Also, my mom kicked me out of the car.

It was ninety degrees outside and sunny, and my dad and I were wandering around the car lot, looking for a Jetta that he’d seen online.

Just when I thought I’d have to give up and tell my parents I was fine biking thirty miles to work every day, Raj appeared.

Raj the car dealer was from India and was very cute in an older person (but not old enough to be my dad) kind of way. He was wearing cool sunglasses and had the smile of a baby angel. I was sold. (On him, that is. You can’t just buy a car without looking at it, first! That would be irresponsible.)

Raj said he would locate the Jetta in question and bring it to the front of the dealership. I smiled and nodded and said something like “Grlbblarbdfhfhiaf, thanks!”

When Raj returned with the vehicle, I was too distracted by my newfound adoration to notice the golden turd-mobile that he was driving.

The car’s interior leather was tan and looked like someone had dragged a muddy cow through the back of the car and then had tried to wipe up the mess with a single CVS Brand paper towel. There was also giant tear in the leather of the passenger’s seat. Not a tear like, “Oh, the car has been through some wear and tear,” but a tear like, “Oh, someone shanked the seat with a steak knife after finding out who died on the last episode of Grey’s Anatomy.”

In addition to these *minor* character flaws, the car has also been the victim of some sort of collision, because the front bumper was one curb away from disassociating with the vehicle.

“Want to take it for a test drive?” Raj inquired. “I can come with you to make sure you don’t get lost.”

“Yes!” I responded, enthusiastically. “Please join us!”

Driving with my dad and Raj was incredibly overwhelming and made me feel like I was back in driver’s ed. Every time Raj told me to turn right or left, I caught myself wondering if I’d pass the test and get my license. Raj did not help my identity crisis by asking me “how I was liking college.”

After the stressful test drive, it was time to talk business.

Raj brought the three of us to his desk and gave us each a miniature water bottle.

“Wasn’t that sooooo nice how Raj gave us water, Mom and Dad?”

They weren’t quite as thrilled…which is how I knew my parents were gearing up to play hardball. And let me tell you, hardball they played.

The scene was something out of a pacifist’s version of The Godfather, or a Wild West film.

……..

Raj tells them the price of the car – which I will refer to as $50. My dad responds by looking dramatically into the distance and saying, “Ill give you $30.”

“No, Mike,” says Raj. “I can’t sell you this car for $30.”

Sophie guzzles water as a way to prevent awkwardly bursting into laughter.

“How do you rationalize this car being worth $30,” Raj asks.

“I know Jettas. And I know this car. And I can tell you, it’s not worth more than $30.”

Dad then proceeds to list – from memory – all of the Jettas in the area that are of a similar caliber but at a lower price.

Raj leans back in his chair, puts his hands behind his head, and sighs dramatically.

Sophie swoons and chokes on her water.

“What can I do…to help you…to help yourself?” asks Raj.

The question is unclear.

“I want the bumper fixed, the seat fixed, and the price brought down to $30,” Dad responds.

Mom and Dad exchange a look. Mom crosses her arms and glares at Raj.

“There’s not enough room in this town for us and a bumper like that,” says Mom.

“Cynthia,” says Raj. “Don’t be rash. Talk some sense into Mike. I can’t just go back to my guy and tell him I’m selling one of his cars for $30.”

(I picture Raj’s “guy” as a large, sweaty man, sitting in the back of the dealership, crunching numbers and licking cheese puff dust off his fingers.)

Raj and Mom and Dad stare at each other for a long time. I notice that there are ants on the floor. I wonder if they’ve been sent by Raj’s “guy” to torture us into agreeing on Raj’s price. I also wonder if the ants found crumbs on the floor, and if that means there is food nearby.

Raj leaves for a while to talk to his “guy.” Mom and Dad discuss.

“I don’t trust the guy,” Dad says. “He’s throwing red herrings.”

I wonder how my Dad knows that Raj abuses animals.

“I say we walk,” Mom says.

“No,” Dad says, dramatically. “If we walk now, we lose the deal. Let’s see what he says.”

Raj returns.

“I can give you the bumper and the repaired seat for $50.”

“I have a plane to catch. We’ll call you,” Dad says.

Raj shakes Sophie’s hand and says, “Sophia, I hope you can talk your dad into buying this car.”

…….

Spoiler alert: I didn’t talk anyone into doing anything.

As I shook Raj’s hand, though, several thoughts raced through my head.

1.) I was really sad to leave Raj on such negative terms. Even though he’d called me the wrong name, I was hoping we could be friends.

2.) I’d always wondered if my parents lead double lives, but after this interaction with Raj, it was clearer than ever that my parents either work for the CIA or are Wild West enthusiasts.

3.) I still didn’t have a vehicle.

Later, on the drive home, my dad went on and on about how Raj was a crook and how he didn’t like the “vibe” of the place and how dare Raj act like he knows more about selling cars than my dad. (Yes. Why would anyone ever act like they are experienced in their own profession. Foolish.)

Personally, I was impressed by Raj. It’s not everyday you go up to bat against two CIA professionals/Wild West enthusiasts and make it out to tell the tale.

As for the car, I have to say, I’m glad I didn’t settle for the golden turd-mobile with the steak knifed seat and the broken front. In life, quality is important. And so is choice. That’s why, the next time I go to a car dealership, I will pop an Advil and wear a pair of horse blinders – if you’re going to play the game, you’ve got to be prepared.

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Parking and Post-its: How to Get Through Life’s Toughest Obstacles

It turns out that having one really easy responsibility is a lot more complicated than being responsible for a multitude of really complex and borderline impossible tasks.

Trust me. I know this for a fact.

Ask me to recite the alphabet backwards, to engage in a “raw food diet” for ten months, to cure my own ADD with the power of focus and concentration, to learn how to drive a stick shift, to forget how to drive a stick shift, to re-learn how to drive a stick shift, to grow three more inches, to befriend a whale, to dig a hole to China with a tablespoon, to befriend Oprah, to become richer than Oprah without marring our friendship, while also maintaining a sunny disposition, and I could probably have all of these tasks done within the week.

But ask me to park in the correct parking lot? Or to monitor a giant pad of Post-it notes? Or to leave a parking lot? Forget about it.

This week, I had an event for work. The event necessitated three tasks from me: 1. Arriving at the venue. 2. Hanging up pieces of notepad paper from a giant Post-it notepad. 3. Leaving the venue.

Besides being available and looking presentable and not offending anyone, those were my primary tasks.

Now, immersed in the incredibly transparent period of time that we call “hindsight,” I can pinpoint several aspects of these two tasks that could have been improved upon.

Let’s begin with “Arriving at the Venue.”

The venue was in Boston. I drive a giant Honda Pilot that’s meant for a family of giraffes, plus a few rhinos if you’re a parental giraffe bringing the kids to and from soccer practice and you happen to end up carpooling.

Driving this tank through Boston is like driving a horse and carriage down a bowling lane – it’s slippery and unpredictable, and without guard rails, you are sure to careen off the road and into a ditch.

So, you can imagine the fear and anxiety I felt as I set out for this event.

I think a lot of my fear and anxiety is residual, left over from the time I got lost driving home from Boston and ended up driving back and forth over the same bridge FOUR times. If you’ve never had the experience of driving over a bridge, only to inadvertently end up driving back over the same bridge five minutes later (and then repeating this series three more times), then you probably take private jets everywhere…wait, are you Oprah? If yes, nod once.

As I set out for Boston, I checked in with myself to make sure I was ready for the journey. My phone was charged; my GPS was configured; my hair was in a “driving bun.” (I never want my hair to be associated with anything negative, and causing a car accident would really be something negative, so the ‘driving bun’ is a preventative measure.)

I have a theory that not all GPS devices are created equal, and that they instead take on the personality traits and habits of their owners.

The reason I think this is because my GPS – like me – waits until the last possible minute to do anything, and then usually ends up doing things slightly wrong and having to find *creative* solutions to easily-avoidable problems.

My device’s name is Renata and she likes to pipe in with new information just when I think I’m finally on the right track.

“Oh, you moved into the right-turn-only lane and are wedged between a food truck and an ambulance? Time to get into the left lane!”

“Oh, you don’t have money for tolls? Time to try to pay a toll with a credit card!”

“Oh, you need to find your way home? Too bad I didn’t save your home address in my records!”

Renata is the Hyde to my Dr. Jekyll. (Yes, I’m a doctor now. It’s kind of a new thing.)

Anyway, Renata and I had – miraculously – managed to make it to the Financial District in one piece, having only been flipped off once (twice).

But then it came time to…PARK.

How does one park a horse and carriage along a bowling lane? One ignores the instructions of one’s boss, who clearly explained that the parking garage was at the END of the road, and one finds an alternative garage because one is a spaz and one saw a giant “P” and treated it like it was the Tasty Burger at the end of an arduous cross-country road trip.

And that is how I (yes I am “One,” SURPRISE) ended up in a distant garage that vaguely resembled a can of sardines and vaguely smelled like one, too.

After parking, I wandered – confusedly – into the venue, where apparently I seemed out of place because three separate security guards asked me if I “needed assistance.” Whether they meant in life or in that moment, I’ll never know.

Regardless, I was at the event!

Now, let’s move on to Task #2: Hanging Up Pieces of Notepad Paper from a Giant Post-it Notepad.

Have you ever seen a giant pad of Post-it paper? It’s giant. You could fit ten years’ worth of reminders on that puppy! (Unless your “Reminder” lists are known to also house your attempts to write your own name in cursive…then you’re looking at six, maybe eight, years of to-do lists.)

At this event, there were Post-its, and it was my job to quietly hang the used sheets of paper, so as to make room for blank sheets.

Hanging paper. Quietly.

If there was ever a task that would surely be my career-ender, this was it.

I anxiously sat near the Post-its and waited for the artist to fill her first sheet. The crowd was silently listening to the event’s speakers, and I assumed I would be able to quietly remove the sheet without drawing any attention to myself.

Never assume you can do anything. Always assume you are capable of nothing, and then feel pleasantly surprised when you do something correctly.

As I started to rip the first sheet, I had a vision of everyone’s eardrums popping and of all the medical bills for which I would be responsible.

The paper made a loud tearing sound. So loud compared to the silence of the audience that it took me aback, and I was afraid to continue.

I paused for a moment and assessed the situation. It didn’t seem like anyone had been seriously distracted by my bumbling ineptitude. So, I resumed with the paper ripping, only to scare myself into immobility, yet again.

I silently pleaded with the paper to please just shut up so that I could at least maintain the potential of a successful future.

It didn’t listen. So, I finally just ripped off the rest of the sheet and hung it on the wall.

Things continued like this for the next couple of sheets, until finally, someone came up to me and said, “Just rip the sheet off like a Band-Aid. Please.”

This feedback was very helpful. I managed to rip the other sheets off in single swoops, and only ripped a couple of the sheets right down the middle.

If there was ever a time to stuff your face with beef-on-sticks at a work event, this was the time.

After the event – which had gone really well, in spite of my duel with an inanimate object – it was time to rush back to my mystery parking lot, so as to arrive in time to save my car from being lit aflame (because that’s what they do when you leave your car in a garage).

“Hi,” I said to the valet parking man. “I’m here to get my car.”

“Okay,” he responded, “pay over there at the machine.”

I approached the machine like an ant approaches a puddle of water. I am not one for machines.

I slid my credit card into the slot and the machine said, “Thank you!”

I noticed it hadn’t given me a ticket…but, I also noticed a receipt in the machine and assumed it was mine.

Yes! I thought, I only owed $10! What a bargain!

I bet that the maker of the payment machine thought he was making a really foolproof machine that even dummies would be able to use. I bet his boss complimented him on the “accessibility” of the machine, and told him he had a real future in the creation of parking payment machines. I bet the creator went home that night and bought himself a nice steak dinner and a bottle of wine to celebrate a job well done.

Well, someone should tell him that there is an exception to every rule.

I grabbed the previous user’s receipt and headed to my car. I drove up to the garage gate and waited for the bar to lift.

When nothing happened, I assumed I hadn’t pulled up close enough to the garage gate, and so pulled the car a tad bit closer.

No movement.

So, like a scared, shaken grandma at Burning Man, I rolled down my window and pushed the intercom button.

“Hello? Yes, hi. The gate isn’t moving.”

“Well, have you paid,” asked the valet man.

“Yes! I even have a receipt,” I said.

Mr. Valet walked over to the gate and took a look at my receipt.

“This receipt is for $10. You owe $39. Where is your paid ticket?”

Oh no. An oversight.

“Whoops!” I said. “I’ll go pay the correct amount.”

Now, my horse and carriage really was stuck on a bowling lane-sized strip of concrete. As I backed away from the garage gate, I could feel hatred radiating off of the other drivers.

When I’d finally paid, I again approached the gate. This time, the garage door was closed and Mr. Valet had to open it for me specially. As I drove away, I took his *intense*, lingering gaze to mean that he and I had bonded and that he would miss my sunny disposition and *charming* mistakes.

Having neglected to get cash from an ATM – despite the fact that the parking garage was DIRECTLY across from a HUGE Bank of America building – I drove aimlessly around Boston, until Renata decided to offer me toll-free route suggestions.

Thanks to Renata, I made it home in one piece, where I told my mom the story of my day.

She was quiet for a moment, and then gave me some sound advice.

“Maybe you should try being less spastic,” she said, kindly and honestly.

Interesting perspective. I’ll add it to my to-do list.