I’ve realized I haven’t yet written about my most frequently discussed feature. My hair. Just kidding, well, kind of. That’s my second most complemented and commented-upon feature.
The smile. According to Wikipedia, the internet’s trusted and very factual site, says that it takes 12 muscles to smile, while only 11 to frown. More effort is needed to smile than frown. This only further proves the amount of effort and overachiever I am if I’m constantly putting forth maximum effort to smile. Constantly.
Since I was little, Ms. Smile, it was so much so that my daycare and pre-k principal would only refer to me as Ms. Smile. Blessed with perfectly straight teeth, after the gap disappeared once my adult teeth came in. My smile used to be the envy of friends, reveal when I’m lying during games, and the first thing you see.
One day, what was natural and took no effort, started to feel like maximum effort. I felt the 12th muscle needed to present these coffee and tea-stained pearly whites. Of course, though, I kept offering my trademark smile, carrying the weight, the soreness, and chapped lips that came with the fading smile—fading but ever-vibrant. From the outside, you could tell the smile started to take more effort. But that was just chopped up to the effect of the medication. Accutane. The remedy to erase acne. Or at least try to stop the acne that was stubborn like me.
Thankfully, my acne didn’t tarnish the beauty of my smile. I had very little on my face. The painful treasure chest was, well, my back. Scattered across from shoulder to shoulder. Lower to upper back. Painful because it was cystic acne. The slightest touch of my bra strap, a friendly poke, or the weight of my school supplies. The acne was present at all times. Front and center in some of my dance costumes. Front and center in my mind. Constant wishing, praying, hoping that this medication will work and they’ll finally be gone. From April to December 2015, my daily pill consumption would increase. From just once a day to four twice a day. The incremental increase in pills aided the gradual increase in effort to smile.
Grades were sacrificed, along with the moisture of my skin. Exposed open wounds slowly turned into closed scars. Now, I have more than one vibrant feature. The bright pink and red scares took center stage, but not for long. After stopping treatment due to the constant smell of iron. The bright red slowly turned into tope pink—an almost skin-like color. As the red turned into pink, the smile returned. Or, I should say, the smile had a new meaning.
Now, the smile fades and returns with the seasons of life. My natural disposition is still a smile, but weight and effort are needed to present it every day. People bring it out. Each dose of dipmein and serotonin from my phone, a movie, TV show, song, book, or the life of another brings about the smile once worn with all outfits.
I’m still called smile by many. Strangers and family are greeted by it first and or greeted by the aurora that comes along with the natural disposition to smile. I’m approached by strangers all the time. The friendly face that seems like she knows what she’s doing. Knows exactly what to say or how to help. My light-hearted and back to being effortless smile I think can be felt, even when I’m not wearing it proudly.
Light. Friendly. Familiar. Smile. All words spoken at me, about me: the smile that all know and come to expect when they see me. The mere absence of it is alarming to some. But, like the seasons, it dies and experiences new growth. Decays with cavities. Brighten will cleanings.
I used to like my smile. Some time, long ago, I found it not appealing anymore. The childlike joy was not seen anymore with each parting of the lips and teeth exposed.