Panic at the disco

"This is what we do now," I say to myself as I look at the freak show before me in the mirror.

Of course, the words echoing off the tile walls sounded more like "nis ith waaa eee loo naaw."

And the reflection looking back at me is the epitome of frightful: forehead askance; lips cartoonishly drawn back and around some clinical-looking plastic thingamajig; a blue light reflects out of my mouth and up my nose with an eerie glow. 

I'm not going to mention the foam.

Suffice it to say it looked like my teeth were special guests at a powder room rave. And even they might be planning to revolt.

I hadn't actually heard the As-Seen -On-TV pitch, but I could imagine it might have sounded something like:

"Now you, too, can experience the joys of professional-strength teeth whitening in the privacy and comfort of your very own home!"

What did I have to lose?

Just a half an hour at this disco and the cover charge - $39.95 the top price of which I am willing to part.

Forty. Bucks?!

Somehow, when I wasn't paying attention, the maximum amount the average sucker/consumer would pay for snake oil (without demanding a full refund) had doubled.

Nevertheless, it seemed like an impulse-item bargain (right at eye level above the whitening pastes and battery-operated toothbrushes in Aisle 27).

I like to think I did due diligence.

I paced around the shelves long enough to Google the product and gathered that its buyers had bestowed on it a four-star rating ... on average. 

No mishaps. No pending lawsuits. A plus on both accounts.

So I buried the box in my cart under shampoo and several rolls of paper towels and hurried off to the cashier.

I lined the conveyor in the order in which I imaged judgment would multiply: *holds head high* produce, meat, dairy and laundry detergent; *murmurs* personal care products, potato chips, and bakery bag; finally *shrieks in horror* three kinds of ice cream!

The clerk will undoubtedly hold up the box of low-self-confidence booster and ask if I've used the product before?

It never fails.

The reddening of my face that is, as I chat with a stranger who is asking about my coffee-colored teeth. ... not the product. 

I assume the product with its gadgets and gizmos and intricate instruction manual will amount to forty dollars I might as well have ripped into tiny pieces to toss in the air during the little pity party my teeth will invite me to attend in 30 days.

I will not RSVP. 

By then, I will have given up on pearly whites and accept the invitation of another dubious suitor … the one who likes to obsess about the calluses and rough patches that just seem to be hanging out in the neighborhood of my feet.

I saw an electric pedicure tool at the end of Aisle 26.

And it was only $19.95: a bargain at twice the price.

As I held the battery-powered sandpaper roller in my hand, the mumbly voice in my head was already talking me into it: This is just what we do now.