Age is really just a number.

I’m not the kind of person who frets about my age. However, on occasion my age does give me a little shock when I think about exactly how many years I’ve been alive.

Today is one of those days. Today’s my birthday.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m really NOT old. I don’t have that many wrinkles yet, and I have yet to find a gray hair in the mirror. With that said, I think I still picture myself being 25. That is until I find myself in a room of 25 year olds and I realize I’m NOT 25 anymore.

I don’t really want to be 25 again, but that’s where my life kind of settled into a comfortable groove, it feels like time has kind of stood still since then. But time doesn’t work that way. Even though it feels like time is frozen, it just keeps on ticking. Tick tock, tick tock.

A day turns into a month, a month into a year, and then here I am today wondering, “How is this possible that I can be getting older? How can I have kids this old? How can all of my friends me this old?”

I had a conversation with my daughter that reminded me that it’s been years since I’ve counted my birthdays on ten fingers.

“Mom, how old are you?” she asked.

“33,” I answered.

“Wow!” That’s a BIG number,” she replied. “Don’t feel bad that you’re old. There’s a girl in my class whose mom is really old.”

“Oh yeah,” I said. “How old is she?”

“She’s 40!!” she exclaimed. “Then she went on to say that someone else had a Dad who was 50. She followed that up by saying, “That’s like almost old enough to be dead.”

I guess I better brace myself for more of these types of conversations because I remember thinking 40 sounded old only a few years ago. Now as the number 30 is getting farther off in the distance and 40 is coming into better view I can see how this all happens and time slips through your fingers.

These days my dental horrors come from root canals and estimates on braces for all three girls, but it wasn’t too many years ago that the dentist left a near-permanent scar in my mind.

As a kid, I remember sitting in the dentist office waiting room with my older brother for my first time to sit in “the chair.” I vividly remember the office had real wood paneling with tons of knots and cracks in the dark, brown, circa 1970s wood. You couldn’t see behind the heavy door that would periodically open and close quickly, but you could hear the sound of a drill and you could get a whiff of a smell that is unmistakably and only found at the dentist’s office.

My brother must’ve sensed how terrified I was, as I shifted my weight nervously in the synthetic leather chairs, after my sister went in for her exam. He took this opportunity to pounce on me in a way that only an older brother can. He pointed to one of the large holes in the wood paneling behind my head and said, “See that.” I nodded my head because my throat was too dry and too raw to speak because of the tension that filled my body. “Some kid sat where you’re sitting right now and the cavities jumped out of his mouth and spread onto the wall,” he said as he ran his index finger around the hole on the wood. “The cavities dug a giant hole on the wall just like the hole they’ve been digging in your teeth.”

Out of a combination of both anger and fear I shot back. “I don’t have any cavities! You do!”
He ignored my attack and kept going after my own fears and insecurities. He said, “You do, too, and the only way to fix them is to get out a big drill and drill the cavities out of your teeth.” He then leaned forward and put his face into my ear and began making the drilling sound, “Zzzzz….Zzzz.”

Just then the door swung open and it was the dental assistant calling my brother into the exam room. All of his bullying confidence disintegrated and he hurried off sheepishly with her. I was relieved he was gone, but I also discovered that I had tons of time to silently ponder the terrible images he had just placed in my head.
Every few minutes I’d hear the sound of the drill buzzing away on some poor cavity-ridden soul and I’d squirm nervously in my seat. I tried to distract myself and think of something else but all I wanted to do is bolt out of that tiny, poorly decorated room and hide.

I thought to myself, Who really needs to go to the dentist anyways? I brush. I’m fine. Besides, I still have loads of baby teeth. What’s the big deal really?

Then the door swung open again and the sounds and smells from the inside wafted into the waiting room. My sister also appeared and proudly declared herself to be cavity-free. Now, it was my turn. With my head held high I tried to not look as terrified as I felt. I walked down the long hall to the last door on the right and took my seat in the infamous chair. In the end, the actual event was far less traumatizing than the anticipation of the fear.

This week I took all three of my children to their regular cleaning at our dentist. It’s a far cry from the reality of dental offices in the 1980s. Our 2010 office has cable TV, an endless DVD collection, and a treasure chest full of toys for kids. My daughter even declared that she loved the taste of fluoride. I’m sure I never said that in my early years of having my bicuspids coated and lacquered.

Several decades later, I still believe I got the last laugh on my brother because I was cavity-free that day and he had multiple teeth that needed work.