The B+X Club
My last visit to the dentist culminated with the doctor’s assertion that I needed a mouth guard. My jaws have been working overtime, you see, clenching with such intensity that you can see the muscles flex through my cheeks, and with greater presentation than any of the muscle groups I’ve sought to intentionally tone. The wear and tear on my molars was what got the dentist's attention; mine was piqued the minute I noticed the chips incurred along the edges of my front teeth, only a few of which could be attributed to moments of genius like this:
Satan circa 2008
Degradation of molars and chipped incisors aside, this parafunctional activity continues to knock loose a filling between canines; I have replaced the little bastard three times. Before caving on the mouth guard front, I tried evening meditation rituals, warm compresses, self-inflicted mandible massage, and dry needling. The first three did nothing, and the latter further aggravated the issue.
Dry needling was a nightmare. I’d had it done before with some (tense) success on my neck and shoulder, but this was different: I have an intense phobia of all things hypodermic. This is a source of much amusement for medical professionals, given the amount of ink deposited in my skin, and much shame for me, a 32-year-old with a propensity to faint in such situations. Imagine my horror when I discovered not only that I wasn’t going to black out, but that my masseter is so developed that it could not be needled. We succeeded in bending two of them before I called it quits, leaving me unable to fully open my mouth for a week and a series of green bruises that appeared at the treatment site. Since intramuscular manual therapy was a fail, the score looked something like Bruxism: 1 and Julene: 0.
As for the mouth guard, it prevents further damage, when I remember to wear it, but has done nothing to alleviate other side effects of my bruxism: namely, persistent jaw soreness and all-day headaches. Heavily optimized articles note that nighttime teeth grinding is a red flag for sleep apnea, which would explain why my coveted eight-hours have left so much to be desired since I started roleplaying Ronda Rousey before bed.
The remaining treatment options aren’t bleak so much as unproven – anti-anxiety medication and, of all things, Botox. Each comes with drawbacks; benzodiazepines are addictive and require regular visits with a psychiatrist, and Botox comes with concerns about muscle paralysis and atrophy – as well as further exposure to needles in my jaw.
My needle fear put a damper on the whole idea until I remembered something: I am a reward-driven individual, provided the reward is something I want. Much like my mother bribed me into bloodwork (at sixteen) with permission to adopt one* cat at a local shelter, I needed a bounty worth suffering for. I needed… well, I didn’t know what until the obvious hit me: maybe just a pinch more Botox, but for less-then-necessary reasons.
In looking up Botox providers, I realized that no matter what way I sliced it, this was going to double, if not triple, the number of times someone would be putting a needle in my face.
And that if I saw the dentist for it, there was no chance of convincing him to pop any leftover units in the steadily deepening lines in my forehead. Per my cursory googling, I knew I could have another type of doctor handle the procedure instead.
Surfing user-submitted photo galleries on Real Self—a fantastically misleading name for a website whose central premise is selecting ways in which to alter one’s self—allowed me to transition from “research” to curiosity scrolling without giving it much thought. If plumping out the results of a lifetime of overly expressive eyebrow maneuvers is great, what else could be better?
Having spent a not insignificant amount of time looking at before and after photos, the distinction between having work done and looking like you’ve had work done is substantial, if hard to quantify. Like porn, I know it when I see it. This raises its own questions about assigning greater value to the idea of natural beauty, while gladly accepting the polite lie of impossible bodies, provided their bearer clams up at mention of any cosmetic alterations.
I’ve internalized mixed messages about such procedures, a combination of post-Spice Girls “girl power” that encouraged me to do whatever I want mixed with Kathleen Hannah-grade skepticism about thinking there is anything empowering in succumbing to the unspoken imperative that I hold onto my looks for as long as I am able. But thoughts like these rarely stop me from doing anything, especially a gesture as small as clicking through a web 2.0 UI. The process reminded me of the intake process of any given online stylist service.
First I selected an “area for treatment” and then a “treatment goal,” followed by the approach I would prefer: surgical, non-surgical, or, somewhat confusingly, “unsure.”
All I could think about was the subtext: “What part of yourself do you hate today? Is it your nose? No? Something else on your face, perhaps, like the eyes or mouth – and what about your neck? Have you considered any (or all) of the following parts of your body may not be particularly good looking? See: your chest, stomach, butt, legs, arms, genitals and overall body composition.”
Alongside photos are price tags and testimonials from happy and unhappy patients alike;
Q&A boards allow window shoppers to discuss their perceived problems with whichever surgeons sit around on Real Self, searching for warm leads to which they can reply.
A search for surgeons in my vicinity offered up a series of professionals with a focus on rhinoplasty – first go ‘rounds as well as revisions, (un)naturally. There’s a handful of bald men that specialize in bolt-on breast enhancements, and a lot of women meting out solutions to those who never bothered to wear sunscreen. I do not find a single glabrous-headed gentleman that specializes in Brazilian Butt Lifts—“BBLs” in surgery-speak—leaving my dreams of a peach emoji-perfect booty to remain just that.
Which is fine, actually. For all the fun that was losing several afternoons to perusing an internet wormhole, I was forced back out by the thought that all the additional cutting, pinning, and poking I was planning would be secondary; there would have to be needles in my jaw, first. There's nothing like a good dose of reality to kill off the half-formed fantasy, and so, for the time being, it seems I'll be leaving the hills and valleys as they are.
* * *
If you've been keeping up with the Cambridge Analytica debacle – which may, god help us, at least slightly lessen the use of Facebook as a primary news source (or method of communication) – you might be intrigued to see the sheer volume of information Google (or Facebook) has collected on you. Whether you think your data has value or not, I think everyone should be more concerned with the security of their accounts on either platform... especially if you're known to re-use passwords across all your logins.
Until next time, be well,
Julene
* I wound up with two.