It was a loving caution from my husband who knew I was about to fall over some huge obstacle on the sidewalk, a caterpillar turd or a fly fart, perhaps.

Ever since I fell and broke off half my front tooth eight years ago, he reminds me, and I remind myself, to close my mouth when I am in midflight, aiming for a crash landing.

Of course, he does try to prevent me from falling, offering his arm if there is any irregularity in the pavement, or a large step, or if I haven’t fallen in a day or so, and he just knows I’m due.

I’m a fallen woman.  I have fallen on every continent.  Now I am working on falling at every downtown intersection.  I think I have three to go.  Turns out, Sir Issac Newton was right, about everything.

When I fell and broke my tooth, I saw stars, and the fall jarred what little sense I had left in my noggin.  The dentist, the endodontist, and I were sure it would abscess and require a root canal.  As a temporary measure, the dentist bonded the stub-of-an-incisor.  This is the dental equivalent of gluing an acrylic tip on a broken fingernail.

We all waited for the abscess and the pain.

The pain never came, and it seemed that I was home free.

The endodontist said, “You will not be happy with that tooth until you have it crowned.”

My dentist said, “I will not be happy with that tooth until you have it, and the one adjacent, crowned.” She rubbed her hands together.  She seemed very eager to give me the royal treatment.

I had saved the tooth fragment in my coat pocket the day I broke it off, but I eventually lost it.  I guess I should have put it under my pillow, because the two crowns were going to cost thousands, thousands that could be spent on a plane ticket or a sofa, or frivolous things.  The rent, for instance.

And, I reasoned, how important was it to spend a queen’s ransom on something the size of a Chicklet. I’m not really a vain woman (except for my hair and nails and the rough spots on my elbows).

But it is also true that I am a retired teacher, so I smile, a lot. Big toothy smiles.  And the adage, “grin and bear it” is my default position in a marriage that has somehow lasted 46 years.

But a lot of my travel is to Norway to visit to my daughter.  Do I need to fret about my jacked up teeth there?  The Vikings (Wikings) tend to be a staid lot, smiling only when they collect their free tuition and health care, or after consuming a couple shots of Aquivit.  As I think about it, I could get by with my resting bitch face nearly anywhere in Scandinavia.

And, from a pragmatic perspective, how much do I really need my biting teeth?  We are traveling to Eastern Europe in the fall, where soup is delectable, and to India in January, where I will not need to tear into a steak.

Even the big holidays don’t require incisors. I can eat mashed potatoes on Thanksgiving; cookie dough at Christmas, egg salad at Easter, beer on the fourth of July.

This summer, my dentist informed me that some day that bonding was going to fall off at an inconvenient time, In an inconvenient place.  On the flight to Japan, for instance.  Or while competing in a hot dog eating contest at the State Fair.

I reluctantly scheduled an appointment to begin the process of crowning my two front teeth.  The first step is frightening, and if you ever get your teeth crowned, Do Not Look In the Mirror at this stage, because the dentist will drill your tooth to the size of a corn kernel.  I looked, and what was reflected back was a cast member in L’il Abner.

It takes two weeks to get the crowns back from Latvia, so the dental assistant somehow casts a set of temporary crowns with an amalgam of Silly Putty, bathroom caulk, and what remained in the spit basin after the last patient left.  Once the concoction solidifies and turns the color of butter, she glues them onto the little nubbins.

Actually, that’s wrong.  The assistant doesn’t make temporary crowns, she makes one crown with a slight indentation in the middle to approximate the appearance of two teeth.  Even George Washington wouldn’t have traded his wood choppers for these toy teeth.

I spent the next two weeks chewing, cursing, biting my nails, and kissing with pursed lips.

I’m not really vain, but I did worry about how the crowns were going to look.  I had said when this ordeal started, “I don’t want my teeth to look like Ivanka Trump’s, alabaster white and even as piano keys.”

The dentist took pictures of my teeth to help match the crown to my natural teeth. She boasted, “They use cameras like this in CSI!” Hmmm. Crime scenes.

“Oh, no,” Dr.Applegate assured me.  “They will look very natural because we will shape them and tint them to match your other teeth.”

This was a good thing, right?  That the $49,000 crowns would blend nicely with my overbite and crossbite, and my coffee-stained teeth?

It was like looking at paint chips, preferring “Virgin’s Pale Bottom” but knowing you have to match the walls with “Grandpa’s Gray Nightshirt.”

The day came, and as soon as Doc Applegate held the first crown up to my mouth, she said, “Too white, I think.”  She shoved both of them on and asked me to take a look.

I’m not vain, but I looked at them in the fluorescent light in the treatment room, the natural light in the parking lot, and the filtered light under the receptionist’s desk.   I rounded up the five patients in the waiting room and the electrician fixing the air conditioner, and we all crowded into the bathroom to see if they were, indeed, too white.

I was sad to admit that they weren’t a match and that I would have to spend another two weeks wearing my toy teeth.

I told the dentist that all I wanted for April was my two front teeth, because I was headed to the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop and there was no way I could keep my mouth wide shut there.

The day before the conference, my new greyish, yellowish crowns arrived.  They were a perfect match for my remaining imperfect teeth.  My smile was now positively goodish.

I kept waiting for my husband to notice my new teeth.  After three days, I stood with my hands on my hips and said, “You didn’t even notice my crowns.”

He looked flummoxed at first, then understanding washed over his face.  “Oh, that’s what was different when I was kissing you!” He felt new teeth while kissing me?  With his eyes closed?  In the throes of passion?  It suddenly occurred to me that he might also have noticed the 75 pounds I’d gained since we got married.

For weeks now I’ve been scrutinizing my beaming smile in my car’s rearview mirror.  Yesterday I realized that I only had two uncapped teeth on either side of each new crown.  As the Brits say, “Mind the gap!”

I’m not vain, really, but I am thinking of crowning those four, plus the one tooth shaped like Florida.  A royal flush.

My dentist is thinking about buying a yacht: the “The Sandy Sue.”