Rolling with my Homies
Glen and I were taking a walk on a bike trail a few years ago and we saw a guy on roller blades. Totally unprovoked, Glen turned to me and said “Hahaha, you would look ridiculous on roller blades.”
DUDE! That’s so offensive, and 100% accurate. I wanted to be mad but I couldn’t because he was just over there spitting truth. Adult me on roller blades would look like Frankenstein’s Monster had a baby with Mia from the Princess Diaries before Julie Andrews helped her and then that baby grew up and got really drunk. But I did own roller blades back in the day, fully embracing the culture of the early 90’s. I was about 6 inches shorter and 20 years younger with a lower center of gravity so I could sort of pull it off, but it still wasn’t pretty.
Mama Said Knock You Out
My brother can attest and is probably reading this thinking “Yea it wasn’t pretty! You knocked out my tooth you monster!” So let’s tell that story.
Tom and I were about 6 and 9 years old respectively, playing tag on roller blades in the driveway wearing every safety precaution known to man including wrist guards, which seems pretty smart. But the wrist guards were essentially brass knuckles cleverly disguised as purple plastic and, as time would tell, my wrists were not the body part that needed protecting. Competitive juices flowing, I took my turn as “It” pretty seriously and flew at my brother like a bird of prey chasing him into the wood chips next to our driveway. I then tagged him/punched him in the face with my wrist guard sending the poor kid into bloody hysterics. Yikes…
Turns out the blood was from a loose tooth that I had knocked even looser, like out of his mouth into the wood chips loose. To make matters worse this was his first real tooth that he lost (besides the other bloody time he took a nose dive into the dresser when he was 2 – that one wasn’t my fault) and we couldn’t find the darn tooth. I had knocked my brother out and lost him a chance at $1 from the Tooth Fairy and written myself out of his will.
All’s Well that End’s Well
Now here is where this story takes a creepy gross turn. Because my mom is a
sentimental hoarder good mother she had saved all of my baby teeth in a little box in her dresser. So we hatched a plan to get one of my old teeth, DIP IT IN BLOOD FROM THE SINK, and then toss it into the wood chips to be “found” and claimed as Tom’s. Looking back on this story all of it makes me nauseous and I hope that you aren’t eating anything while reading this. I should have said that A LOT earlier.
It worked though. I “found” Tom’s tooth in the wood chips and he was very pleased knowing that he was about to come into some serious 6 year old dough. No a little blood, no foul. The real tooth, yea that’s missing forever. Maybe futuristic archaeologists will find it and trace back my brother’s genealogy. And then Tom will be famous and his descendants will visit his exhibits in museums. Bro, 9 year old me just helped you establish your legacy. Don’t say I never did you any favors.
With increased curiosity about where all the rest of my baby teeth are right now,