More wisdom, fewer wisdom teeth

I consider myself to be a person of principles. Some call this being a “stubborn pain in the… I consider myself to be a person of principles. Some call this being a “stubborn pain in the ass,” but you get the general idea.

At some point during high school, most rational and reasonable people, who grew up in an age of modern dental technological progress, put themselves at the mercy of an oral surgeon and get their wisdom teeth removed.

I’m neither rational, nor reasonable. Around the same time that the world of motor vehicles was put on high alert because the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania foolishly declared my presence behind the wheel of an automobile to be legal, my dentist also warned that my wisdom teeth were a “situation that needed to be brought to my attention.”

This had to be the stupidest idea I’d heard since kindergarten, when my playmate and I decided that since both of our parents refused to have an outdoor pool installed, digging our own in the backyard would not only be economical, but work out just as well as the real McCoy. My wisdom teeth didn’t bother me at all. Shoot, I couldn’t even see the molars that were allegedly going to screw up the years, not to mention thousands of dollars of orthodontia, I’d persevered during those awkward middle-school years.

Despite my reluctance, I relented and agreed to go to a consultation with the oral surgeon. When the big day rolled around, a nurse called me into the surgeon’s office. My dad came along for “moral support.” In reality this was just a cover-up so that he could drive me there to be sure my ass actually went in the first place. I sat down in a cushy chair and the first thing I spotted on the surgeon’s desk was … a jar of teeth. Not fake, “this is a mold of your mouth” teeth, but nasty-ass, actual human teeth left in some brown substance for preservation purposes. This was not the most convincing way to sell an unnecessary surgery to a highly skeptical chick like myself.

My consultation lasted about as long as one of J.Lo’s marriages. On the way home, I spouted off a list of reasons why the oral surgeon was a complete quack, and why there was no way in hell my wisdom teeth were coming out. They brought me no discomfort. I didn’t want to waste my valuable time bed-ridden and looking like a chipmunk for the better part of a week. And — because I’m a complete dork and still wear my retainer to bed each and every night — it was highly likely that my teeth would come up in place and not render my days as a metal mouth useless. Besides, I needed all the wisdom I could get.

In the years since, my dad has continued to periodically mention the idea of me having my teeth removed. Before he can so much as complete the sentence, I am quick to cut him off and bark, “My teeth don’t bother me, and having them removed is really just a vicious conspiracy thought up by the American Dental Association, to make a pile of money off of unassuming suckers like my sister, who spent four days on a diet consisting of nothing more than milkshakes and Jello after having her wisdom teeth ripped from her gums.”

During the four years since that dreadful consultation, I’ve reveled in the fact that for once in my life, my warped logic may have gotten me out of doing something I didn’t want to do.

This was all fine and dandy until a month ago when — horror of horrors — my teeth really started to bother me. Not all of them, but the left side in particular. Blessed with a fairly high pain threshold, I was able to ignore it for about a week. As the situation persisted, I pressed my face up against a mirror, opened my mouth and tried to inspect for myself to see what the hell was going on back there. Sure enough, a hunk of white enamel could be seen, starting to bust through my gums. Here I was, 20 years old, and I was friggin’ teething.

I started an inconvenient and ineffective regimen of tossing back Tylenol and sucking on ice cubes all day long. When it finally got to be too much to endure, I decided the pain caused by my teeth outweighed the hit my pride would be taking if I were to confess that my anti-surgery rationale was no longer legitimate. I had to gather all my courage, dial home, and ask my parents to set up another consultation with el Quack-o, the dreaded oral surgeon.

Making that call was admitting defeat after a four-year battle. What makes it worse is that by having to admit that my dad was right, and, by default, I was wrong. To his credit, he has yet to rub it in my face or pull out the ultimate phrase of supremacy and victory: “I told you so.”

I may have lost the battle, not to mention my dignity, but hopefully the surgery will put an end to my post-childhood teething problems, and maybe it’ll make it a little easier to admit when I’m wrong from now on — as a matter of principle, of course.

Colleen Bayus’ Christmas present to the oral surgeon will be the addition of four teeth to his bizarre collection. E-mail her at cab2357@pitt.edu.