The daily digest of Twin Cities culture | Secrets of the City

For more than fifteen years, the gap between my two front teeth has been a source of self-loathing. This is usually how that went: I pore over women's magazines, never pausing at the pencil-thin thighs but rather marveling at the models' perfect smiles. Next, I stare at my reflection, puzzling over whether my gap makes me look European (Vanessa Paradis), lusty (Lauren Hutton, Madonna), punk-rock (Mick Jones of The Clash), or just plain hideous. When I see photos of myself, I fix upon the gap-toothed grin rather than, say, the double chins. Call me superficial if you must, but believe you me: Diastema can cramp a girl's style.

In 1997, an unfortunate accident involving sangria, polka, and a good-looking Brit left me with a deadened front tooth. One root canal, a crown (which left the gap intact), and ten years later, the Chiclet started to show signs of wear. So, I figured, how harmless would it be to finally close the gap, since I would be replacing my crown anyway? My only complaint is that food sticks to my smile nowadays, whereas I certainly didn't have that problem before. In any case, je vous presente me and my new, improved front teeth: