The AcciDental Smiler

I wasn’t happy. But my lips said otherwise.

On most mornings, I step out with a noble intention: walk briskly, stay healthy, and disturb my dental work as little as possible.

Thanks to a recent root canal, my mouth is on a strict no-jiggle protocol.

The dentist, overly cheerful and suspiciously enthusiastic about tiny metal tools… advised me to “avoid any jerky facial movements.” Which, it turns out, includes smiling, sneezing, and occasionally breathing too hard.

So now, as I march down the road, I press my lips together.

Not in defiance. Not in Zen silence. But with the desperate hope that my molars stay where they’re supposed to.

The result? A peculiar expression… tight-lipped, suspiciously serene. Somewhere between Mona Lisa and “I swallowed a secret.”

And people love it.

The first few days, I’m baffled. Why are strangers smiling at me like I’m their long-lost cousin who just returned from Canada?

The newspaper man on his cycle smiles. Hospital Nurses grin in passing. Even the lottery ticket guy… the one who lights incense sticks next to a pocket-sized serene Lord Ganesha… beams at me like we share a winning number.

It takes me a while to get it.

This isn’t kindness.

This is a misunderstanding.

They think I’m smiling.

My lips, clenched in pain management, are being read as the quiet joy of a man who greets the morning sun with gratitude and inner peace. The kind of person who says things like, “Every day is a gift.”

I’m not that person. But my mouth is out here building a whole new reputation.

I try adjusting… let my lips part a little, give the teeth some room to breathe. But the moment I pick up pace, there’s that familiar tremor in the molar region. Like a low-budget earthquake.

So I go back to clamping up… and boom, back to being Mr. Congeniality.

Now, even the stray dogs… those semi-retired street legends who usually lie around bored near the tea shop… have started noticing me.

There’s a pack of seven in varying shades of sleepiness. Most mornings, they ignore the walkers like it’s beneath their pay grade. But not me.

They lift their heads, ears twitching, eyes narrowed. They study my face like I’m either a wandering biscuit distributor or the reincarnation of someone who once fed them omelette scraps.

One of them, a brown fellow with one ear doing yoga and the other doing nothing, and a tail shaped like a half-hearted Wi-Fi symbol, even trails a few paces behind me the other day. Not threatening. Just… thoughtful. Like he’s silently asking, “You good, bro? You seem weirdly at peace with life.”

That’s when it hits me:

This is how easy it is to look like a friendly person.

All it takes is one tightly clamped upper lip.

No wonder some dentists advertise that they can “bring the smile back.” They know exactly what they’re selling. Not just dental work… social acceptance, charisma, the illusion of deep emotional stability.

But now, I begin to worry.

What if this continues?

What if the dogs start following me every day? What if I accidentally become the Pied Piper of dental anxiety, leading a troop of confused but hopeful dogs down sleepy bylanes? No flute. Just floss.

But I don’t stop.

There’s something oddly nice about all of it.

Maybe it’s the endorphins.

I recently saw a yoga instructor say, “When it hurts, smile! Even a fake smile tricks the brain into releasing happy hormones.”

Apparently, if you stretch your lips, the brain assumes you’re doing great and sends out the serotonin party balloons.

So that’s what I’ve been doing. Faking it. For my jaw. For my sanity. And, unintentionally, for my growing pack of street-dog fans.

And strangely… it works.

I return home not just toothache-free, but lighter. Calmer. Possibly glowing with some unexplainable dog-whisperer aura.

So yes, I walk around with a fake smile.

Yes, strangers think I’m delightful.

And yes, I may have accidentally become the unofficial ambassador of morning joy.

But deep down, I know the truth.

I am just a man

with questionable posture,

a hypersensitive molar,

and a facial expression powered entirely by dental trauma.

And if that brown dog with one ear doing yoga starts bringing me gifts, I’ll know I’ve gone too far.