I have a big mouth, thanks for noticing
I have a big mouth, or so I was told last week.
Normally, of course, that wouldn't be a complement, but a statement on both my inability to keep my moronic comments to myself and to limit the volume so as not to wake babies across town. Actually, believe it or not, I've never been told that before, at least not to my face, in writing, through an interpreter, or in any legally filed court document alleging slander.
So last week I was somewhat amused when during an annual visit to a dentist to have the plaque jackhammered from my tooth crevices, the pleasant hygienist informed me of what a nice, wide palate I possess.
'Well, thanks for noticing,' I said, as I've always been aware that I'm able to pack a heckuva lotta cake and pie in there -- sometimes both at once -- yet no one's ever really mentioned it. Turns out that a pleasantly spacious palate like mine makes it easier for the hygienist to insert those rubber plugs in before she takes her X-rays, and I'm guessing it makes is easier, too, for the dentist when those Xrays show a fork tine jammed in between the molars.
No, metal. I'm an aggressive eater. I'm guessing an abnormally wide palate is a genetic thing, meaning either my dad or my mom or someone else up the hereditary river also had a big mouth. Maybe I come from a whole line of big mouths, dating back to prehistoric days, when my Neanderthal ancestors were highly regarded for eating the biggest woolly mammoth steaks. Maybe the small-mouthed people in my lineage were selectively eliminated from the chain, unable to either get enough food to compete or to holler loudly enough to say, 'Hey, you're about to run me over with that new wheel thingie you just invented.' Or maybe I just carried that metaphor too far and you're about to turn the page. I just hate it when I do that.
Possessing a portly palate is not something of which a person can be particularly proud, I suppose, as it's not like I do jaw exercises or wear a mouth-expansion device as I sleep to get it that way. It's just one of those unique physical traits each of us has, like my grandpa with his humongous hands, my uncle with his huge head (his high school football team had to order him a special helmet), or my great aunt with that bodacious bosom that deprived me of oxygen for 12 seconds every year at Christmas. No wonder I hate hugs.
In most regards, I'm a pretty standard dude, physically speaking. I'm a little taller than average, a bit overweight -- OK, I'm pudgy, dammit -- and my facial features could be correctly described as 'homely, bordering on creepy.' My hair is still fairly un-gray for someone my age, I'd say I'm relatively clumsy for someone with no major degenerative muscular disorders, and I'm guessing I have a quite common number of moles, skintags, scars, bruises, fatty skin lumps, pimples, pock marks and itchy rashes. Yeah, you're right. The ear hair does seem a little lush. Must be a dietary thing.
As such a bland example of a humanoid, before last week's mention of my pleasantly splayed palate, I had only once before been told of some exceptional condition I carry. Veins. Big ones. Corpulent corpuscle-carrying canals, easy to stick with a needle.
It was a prior to a recent surgery when I was told of this condition. It was pre-op time, with nurses scurrying hither and fro, shaving, taping, washing, inserting IVs, when one said admiringly, 'Oh, my, look at those veins ...'
Others drifted over to see for themselves, and remarked, too, 'Wow. Nice.' Turns out my inner arm and wrist veins are the ones of which phlebotomists dream, big and fat, easy to find, with enough volume to fill a vial for the lab in less time then it takes to find a Band-Aid.
A little later on that morning, a new nurse came in and said, 'So you're the one with the great veins?', giving me almost a celebrity presence in the room. I soaked it up, of course, flexing my fist a little extra hard to get that one on the back of my wrist to pop a little more. One nurse explained to me how nice it really is to have a patient with veins like mine, as some come in dehydrated or with bloodflow problems and it can be like drilling for water in a desert to try to get an IV in an arm. I get it. I'm blessed. I'm a bleeder. I suppose having a big mouth and swollen veins is OK, but really, I'd rather be known for having a Dwayne 'The Rock' Johnson physique or a Brad Pitt face or a Frank Sinatra voice. I'm largely alright with going through life mostly unnoticed in a crowd, but, ya know, just once it'd be nice for some pretty girl to shriek, 'OMG! He's such a hunk!' when I walk past. Actually, I did think that happened once, but turns out she yelled, 'OMG! What a skunk!' Sometimes that lush ear hair distorts things. And it was even more embarrassing when I yelled back, 'Hey babe. Wanna see my fat veins?'
She didn't. Maybe, now that I think about it, it's not necessarily so great to have stunning beauty, or to be that one-in-a-million stud with perfect hair, muscles on muscles, a sexy smile, and a handsome mug that was designed for a billboard. Guys like that must get bothered all the time, and how would one retain his humility when he's told all the time how awesome he looks?
Me. I don't have that problem. Every now and then maybe somebody will say, 'Hey bub. Ya know ya got a big mouth?'
Yeah, man. I do. You should see my ear hair.
