The Tooth Hurts: Why finding contentment is like pulling teeth?

While biting into a barbecued chicken drumbstick last night, I broke and swallowed the tooth to the right of my front teeth.

Some people are born with special genes; they develop into great painters, philosophers, athletes, and entertainers. I got lousy teeth chromosomes. Over the last ten years, I have spent at least 25% of my time and +/- $25,000 in cold cash on dentists and oral surgeons. Putting more teeth into my asset extraction, are empty spaces once occupied by pearly off-whites: three back uppers (phase one of planned implants), one lower left (phase two), and one upper-back-right crown holding on by rotted stickum (phase three). And now, this fowl opening (phase four). All this, plus four previous root canals and so many crowns I feel entitled to rule a small fiefdom. Computing the overall investment and cost of living increases, I have willed equal mouth shares to my two kids.

When I realized that the tooth had broken off—only to discover it was currently tumbling through my intestines on its way to my bowels—I had a nerve-out. Tossing my unfinished dinner plate into the sink, I huffed into to the bathroom and examined the desecration in the mirror. I looked like an extra from the cast of Deliverance. Devastated, I pounded my fist on the counter and exclaimed, “God dammit! I can’t believe this is happening to me. Why am I so unlucky?” Moping back into the living room, I avoided eye contact Lynn and plopped down onto the couch adding a not-so-subtle “Harumpf.” Closing my eyes and mouth, I processed the situation:

Lynn, Bentley (our dachshund) and I were leaving in the morning for a week of rest, relaxation, hiking, and relishing the splendor of the Rockies and Carbondale, Colorado;
I wouldn’t be able to go to the dentist till we got back;
I couldn’t smile or talk to anyone because people would cringe and likely offer me loose change;
Lynn would walk a few steps behind me in public settings;
I’d spend my time sequestered and avoid humiliation;
Only Bentley would empathize. He had six of his teeth removed.

Ashamed. Victim. God had kicked me in the mouth. My life sucked.

When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was a framed photograph on the wall—a picture taken in Cairo, Egypt five years earlier. While taking photographs from the back seat of a van headed to a place called Garbage City, I noticed a man shining shoes on a street corner. His radiant smile caught my attention and, though a thick-link chain ran along the sidewalk and blocked my view, I aimed and clicked off one shot. Not until that night, when reviewing images from the day, did see what I had captured—a perfectly framed image of a shoeshine guy behind a foreground sidewalk chain. With an unbridled Cheshire smile. Missing all but three teeth.

Many of us spend too much of our lives behind thick chains, working arduously to project the best image. Best college, job, car, salary, and neighborhood. Best body, hair, complexion, and perfectly aligned teeth. Unsatisfied, we whine about the current situation. “If only I had X, or could Y, I’d be happy.”

And then there’s this photograph of a shoeshine guy, sitting on a trash-laden street corner in Cairo, his toothless expression exclaiming, “God, I’m the most blessed man in the world. I can’t believe this is happening to me. Why am I so lucky?”

Along with the tooth, I swallowed my pride and smiled, knowing this tooth shall pass.