I would consider myself to be your average, reasonably healthy (knock on several different grains of wood) woman in my mid-twenties. With no dire medical issues or crippling addictions to speak of beyond the occasional drunken cigarette drag or over-caffeinated Diet Coke jones (okay, maybe scrambling to guzzle one by 9am or face a wicked withdrawal headache is a tad much, but I digress), I'd say all is clear on the health front.

For whatever naive reason, I've always envisioned the ages of 21 to 31 to be a magical time of physical status quo: a cryogenic stasis during which your looks and virility fall into some nebulous "adult" classification. This will be the only period of life in which wearing a tube top is as socially acceptable as a maternity muumuu so long as you don't confuse the two. You are, except for a few things, rarely too old or too young for much of anything, and for this last generational stretch you've still got your "whole life ahead of you." You'll still get carded at bars. You can still karaoke to Britney Spears with unabashed zeal. God willing you can still saunter around in hip hugger jeans with hardly a disapproving glance (provided they fit). Ah, the 20s. How I enjoy them.

Or, I suppose, enjoyed them. Now fully entrenched in my quarter-life year, I've found some unprecedented weirdness brewing in the (gasp!) "body changes" department - something one imagines to be an experience forgotten in adolescence and further shirked until inexplicably finding yourself drawn to Anne Taylor Loft slacks, box wine, and Lifetime Original Movies.

Foolish child! The age of aging is already upon me. And its evil buzzards are circling in on, of all places, my damn mouth.

Now, do you remember this guy?

No? Well, if you went to a snooty, high falutin' Boca Raton private Montessori preschool (because your mom worked there and you got free tuition like moi), or anywhere else there was a sincere need for dental education involving grown men dressed as teeth, you probably do. Ah, Tooth Santa! He comes through but once a year, bearing gifts of cheap toothbrush finery, cinnamon dental floss destined for non-use, and coloring books pertaining to the importance of oral hygiene. Tooth Santa puts you on his knee and, after giving you a sad-looking plastic toothbrush and a sample of glittery bubblegum toothpaste that you will later learn tastes like complete ass, asserts:

"Brush those teeth, little boys and girls, and they'll always stay healthy and strong!"

You know what, tooth guy? You lied. Right to my cherubic, toddler face.

I have had two — TWO — real cavities in my life. I have (admittedly) been lax on my yearly cleanings since my parents' dental insurance dropped me, but I bought me one of them 'lectric toothbrushes around the same time. Forget your analog toothbrush! Step into the future!