The day I got my braces was the day the world was supposed to end — December 21, 2012, if anyone remembers. Actually, now that I think of it, 12/21/12 is interesting, numerically, being exclusively 1s and 2s, as well as somewhat palindromic, though we shan’t try to read too much into it. Anyhow, it might as well have been the end of the world for 13-year-old me. Already, with my glasses, I was riding the nerd train to social Siberia. The fact that the rest of the world thought it was Doomsday, too, didn’t seem much of a stretch.

Then, about a couple weeks ago, I got a root canal on Friday the 13th. The procedure had been postponed twice, so it really seemed to me, lying on that operating table(?) with a guy sticking a drill into my mouth, that someone up there either had it out for me, or was trying to tell me something about the terrible state of my teeth, or about the profession of dentistry in general. Either way, next thing you know, I’ll be getting my wisdom teeth pulled out on Halloween or something.