At their advanced age, my teeth have
achieved ideal occlusion, the uppers
slightly overlapping the lowers,

as well as interdigitation—the cusps
of the upper molars fitting precisely
into the grooves of the lower molars,

thanks to a series of teeth-shaped
aligners that have hugged my
overbite and, with gently controlled

pressure, tugged my nashers into
proper position. This orthodontic
miracle did not exist a half century ago

when my poor teeth, encased in metal
bands, tugged by unforgiving (and
spectacularly unattractive) headgear,

ached constantly for years, along with
the rest of teenaged me. It was well-
intentioned, I know, and my teeth did

shift in the desired direction, but over
the decades they migrated, as all
our parts do, to center, my former

dentist told me, patting his belly.
Now, nine months after the first
set of aligners took up residence

in my mouth, I am a walking billboard
for the it’s-never-too-late crowd,
eager to get the retainers that

will hold my not-quite-pearly whites
in place (next up: a little whitening),
and then, shiny and spiffed up

for my comeback, I will toss my head
and deliver my line: All right, Mr. DeMille,
I’m ready for my close-up.