I grind my teeth.  This weekend when I had my two oldest friends over for dinner I randomly said, “do either of you remember that?  That I grind my teeth?”  My answer was, “I thought you knew that, that it was always a thing.”  It has been.  My earliest memory is of my nanny slapping my when I slept in her bed one night.  I didn’t know what I was doing.

Since then I’ve been woken up countless times to be told to stop the horrible noise I was making—a horrible noise I wouldn’t know if I heard it.

Instead, I only know the uneasy sleep that accompanies the grinding.  Apparently it is caused by nerves, a bad bite and a type A personality—I have all three.

So, in addition to a mouth guard and a warm towel to relax my jaw prior to sleep; to ocean waves of white noise to relax me putting my tongue between my teeth as a pressure gage, I’ve been thinking of comforting things.  Last night at about two am I remembered the movie “Stealing Beauty,” and that this was the sort of life I dreamed for myself at 15—a solitary room with a bathtub front and center in the midst of an Italian vineyard.  There are other people tucked off in other cabins and they meet a few time a day for meals, croquet and swimming naked, but beyond that, you’re on your own to write meaningful poems on tiny snippets of paper you can artfully burn on an open flame and watch smolder from a luke warm bath.  There’s also amazing 90s music playing in the back ground at all times, money is never mentioned and your have a romantic, bohemian past to shroud yourself in whenever life feels to mundane—oh, and old photographs, antique dresses and formerly exquisitely handsome and terminally ill family “friend” to tell you how beautiful and sexy you are in a non-threatening way. 

I sat watching movies like this for years.  How could adulthood be anything but a little disappointing?  I don’t know a single person with an Italian Villa.


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