When I was thirteen, I went through the standard teenage rite of passage: getting orthodontic braces. Periodically, I had to visit the clinic to have them tightened. For most teenagers, this is a dreaded chore, notorious for causing days of dull ache and intense discomfort.
Naturally, my parents were utterly baffled by my reaction to these appointments. Instead of dreading them, I always got incredibly excited. I counted down the days, practically leaping into the car when it was time to go. They probably thought they had raised the most resilient, stoic teenager in South Africa.
They wouldn't have been surprised if they had known the truth.
My mum would drop me off outside the clinic, and I would head upstairs with an uncharacteristic spring in my step. The magic began the moment the orthodontic nurse came to fetch me from the waiting room. She was a gorgeous, friendly blonde who always made a point of asking me how school was going, treating me with a warmth that completely disarmed my thirteen-year-old self.
The highlight, however, was the actual procedure. I would lie back in the chair, and she would lean closely over me with her tightening tool to adjust the wires, her ample bosom just inches from my dazzled gaze. For a teenager right at the precipice of waking up to the world of romance and attraction, having this lovely woman so close was absolute heaven.
To her, it was just a routine, innocent Tuesday morning at the office. To me, it was a profound, thrilling introduction to the opposite sex. The physical discomfort of the tightening didn't matter at all; the scenery more than made up for it. It remains one of my funniest memories of growing up—a time when a painful dental adjustment somehow became the most anticipated event on my social calendar.
