An Avalanche For Royalty

I was never one of those pink and fluffy lasses who dreamed of, one shiny day, acquiring a sing-songy prince with product-saturated hair. Princesshood, you understand, would have wiped out my priorities: Rubik's Cubing, fig picking, and bike riding to 7-11. Plus, high heels gave my ankles the tweaks.

Now that I'm 38, though, I'm going to give crown-wearing a go. I get fitted for one tomorrow, in fact. It'll run me about $1,100 (give or take an arm or a leg), but it should last me until I'm interred. Alas, my crown will be made of porcelain and will reside in the back corner of my mouth, but let's all agree to admit that I'm, nevertheless, getting a coronation--of sorts. I shan't expect a parade, it's true. But a post-procedure bean burrito would neatly suffice.

What prompted this fortuitous turn of events? Last week, as I was wishing out loud for summer to hurry up and arrive already, I experienced my first dental avalanche. One of my molars (aided by the meagerest of sound waves bouncing 'round my gums) up and broke in half. The dislodged piece slid serenely away from the rooted portion and settled in the valley under my tongue. It didn't hurt. There were no dangling nerves. Mostly, having a cleanly cleaved tooth felt--well--expensive.

And that it is. Tomorrow, I'll trade my dentist an entire paycheck for a molecule of porcelain and a Dixie cup of filtered water. But I demur from complaining since Do-It-Yourself Dentistry isn't something I've warmed up to yet.

Denticular doctoring sure is pricey. I may be getting the crown but, if you ask me, madam Dentist is the one who's looking like royalty.