original parts.

"A girlfriend of mine had a bunch of plastic surgery, but nah, not me. I'm all original parts."

"Yeah," I reply, not particularly interested in the conversation, but participating minimally because I want to have good working relationships with my coworkers.

"Well, no, I take that back. I've had some crowns on my teeth. But other than that, all mine."

I snap my head to attention, and my tongue automatically goes to the left side of my mouth to feel the smooth porcelain amongst the enamel. I just had a crown put in, and though I had dreaded it for all the traditional reasons of dreading major dental work, it never occurred to me that it would be a rite of passage. It hurt to get it done and it was expensive, but that part was over. Now I have to face the fact that I am already having to replace body parts.

Man, I'm getting old.

Aging becomes a different process the more you do it. In the not-too-distant past, getting older was good, because it meant you could do more stuff, have more freedom and privileges. Now I'm not growing any closer to adulthood, I'm growing closer to the infinite.

I feel like my car. My car is only five years old and was made by reputable Japanese people who want young American girls to get to their destinations safely. But I've run her hard during the past five years and 105,000 miles, and I've been noticing signs of her age. You know, some more bumps in the ride, a little more noise, a few more vibrations. I've had to replace a couple things: a headlight, a taillight, a belt. But then a couple weeks ago, I had to replace a catalytic converter. The first shop wanted to charge me $1400, approximately a third of the value of the car. And I had to decide how much this car was worth to me, whether it would be better to get it fixed and wait until the next thing went wrong or just sell her off and upgrade. I feel rotten for even considering this betrayal, when it was me who put her in this condition, and she has never let me down.

In the end, I managed to find a shop that did the work for $300, which was still less than a tooth-shaped piece of porcelain in my mouth cost me. And though a crown for me is more like a headlight than a catalytic converter or even a belt, it makes me feel world-weary and used up. The crown is just the first step on a path that leads to dentures (new pistons), titanium hips (differential replacement), and pacemakers (aftermarket distributor).

Before you protest, once again, let me affirm that I know I am whining about nothing. It's a struggle to be an artist when there's nothing wrong with your life. It's just a tiny crown, and if I'd been more devoted to my dental care when I was little, I wouldn't even be having this premature life crisis (or I would, but it would have to be about my one grey hair again). I am still young, and I can still do anything. I may not be 100% original parts anymore, but I'm still running, and I've got a lot of miles left in me yet.