Old Men Rule

Confession: I’ve been kissing a 35 year-old.

THIS one, to be more specific.

There are few things I like better than celebrating birth – mine, for the most part, but RP’s comes in at a close second. And since I’ve spent the last four weeks unable to exercise and officially off narcotic drugs, there is very little else in my life to celebrate.

In his own celebration, RP left me last weekend for a little boys’ jaunt down to Mexico. Since I am currently barred from swimming, surfing, and even hot-tubbing, Mexico held little appeal for me aside from marzipan candy and delicious vanilla extract.

So I stayed home and watched Mad Men rested.

And whipped up this little confection.

RP had it for dinner Sunday, along with my sad version of German Rouladen.

He also ate it for breakfast Monday.

And then as a midnight snack.

He likes chocolate cake.

I can’t blame him; the mere bite I had raised my blood sugar to levels not surpassed since 1999.

Even though I could celebrate RP all day long, let’s bring this post back around to ME –or, rather, my oral health.  I was awkward enough as a pre-teen, so I skipped out on the whole braces phase (even though I creatively utilized paperclips to “pretend” now and again).

That said, at 29, I’m entering the world of orthodontics. This means that not only am I barred from eating anything except during my highly regulated Invisalign breaks, I also get to be that awkward chick brushing her teeth in the office bathroom at least twice a day. Not to mention I slur my speech like Lindsay Lohan at a Sunday brunch.

It’sh thuff.

And take douchebag-like car photos of myself to see how noticeable it really is:

By my calculations, in 18 months my self-esteem will have fallen to Colombian-prostitute levels. But by that point I’ll have perfect teeth and weigh approximately 87 pounds.

I’m on board.