After more than 80 years of nearly constant practice and exhaustive training, I am embarrassed to admit that my tongue still can’t stay out of the way of my teeth. Just as disappointing is my starboard cheek, which gets slammed nearly as often as my tongue. My cheek reacts instantly and with more tears and drama for some reason. While I may go several months without these oral train wrecks, they happen when I am least prepared and often in the presence of someone I wouldn’t have chosen to see me drooling blood into my beard.
My dental hygienist is familiar with this recurring injury and never fails to comment on a wound when digging around in there. I have no idea why, after all these years, my mouth has not adapted to this constant peril. While more than a few organs on my original parts list are no longer with me, except for this mouthy trio, those that remain seem to get along nicely. They have learned to survive the dangers of their environment well enough that on some days, there isn’t even one Band-Aid on my hide. Oh sure, there are bruises, scrapes, cuts and surgical wounds here and there, but this is different. It’s the same thing every time, as though eating is a brand-new experience and I’ve never chewed in my life.
I don’t think I can rightly blame my teeth for the injuries. They are fixed, more or less, and unlikely to chase my tongue around my mouth just to be mean. Although nine out of 10 doctors agree that the tongue has no brain of its own, there’s no question that it has some responsibility to stay the heck out of the way when it’s time to go to work. It is a tough, agile and powerful clump of muscles and tastebuds, seemingly well equipped for its assigned tasks. It seems to me that Mr. Tongue isn’t all that bright, and in bouts with Mr. Molar, regularly loses by TKO. Teeth are just hard blocks of mineral used to jackhammer PB&J sandwiches, Payday bars and bacon into delicious smithereens. It has been decades since my wisdom teeth were evicted, so perhaps there’s a correlation to study there.
Now that I think about it, this ol’ tongue has caused me more than a little trouble, almost from the starting gate. I’d wager there are a few others of my vintage who remember what a cake of Ivory soap in your mother’s hand tastes like. That’s easy, but can you also check the boxes for the soapy hands of your grandmother and your babysitting aunt, too? Letting my tongue run amok brought some unexpected consequences, even as I grew more mature older.
Other factory-installed equipment I’m still walking around with has worn thin with time and use. Even with the usual upgrades, my eyes aren’t as useful as they used to be. Clarity and contrast are fuzzy memories. My ears, assisted as they are by hearing aids that cost as much as a new battery for your Tesla S, offer a soothing silence whenever I need it. That feature alone is worth the price of admission. If, by some unfortunate circumstance, you find yourself engrossed in a fascinating discussion with me on, say, the importance of celebrity political endorsements, you can be sure that with the magic of Bluetooth and a couple of surreptitious taps on my ear, I’ve turned off my hearing aids and am listening to Willie Nelson’s “Stardust” album. My vacant, glassy-eyed smile should be a clue that I’ve departed the conversation, as well as a good measure of consciousness.
Many other parts and systems in this old body are in equally poor repair because of high mileage and deferred maintenance. Most of my joints need new bushings and lube, while my engine is limping along on five cylinders and making weird noises. I haven’t added any antifreeze for more than four decades, but I park inside almost every night now. I appear to need resealing, as there are a few pesky leaks that need attention. The exhaust has been a problem for more than one wife, despite the efforts of two highly qualified exhaust mechanics. Outside, the finish is rough and dull, with signs of corrosion and neglect. A good buff and wax takes time and money, so I run it as is. It still gets me where I need to go — perhaps not in the style I’d like, but I arrive with gas to spare.
As a very good friend told me recently, “Your orbital spin is slightly out of synchronization with the Earth’s wobble.” That may be so, but I’ve come to accept my lot with more than a little gratitude. I am vintage, or you can call me mid-century modern. In my home, a Civil War rifled musket and a sous vide live together in harmony and purpose. A 1920s military-issue compass rides in the console of my GPS-equipped vehicle, and a pad of paper and fountain pen rest beside the iPad on which I wrote this.
Some days I feel broken and on others I feel just broken in. That’s something to chew on. Carefully.
