When I’m stressed I go to Jamaica.

I’d used to go there for real. On vacation from the rat race, a boat would take us out to the reef so we could enjoy the beautiful fishes and corals and fans. Sometimes diving, sometimes snorkeling, I’d relax in the warm water, feeling the gentle surge of the sea, surrounded by beautiful wildlife.

The money’s not there now, but I still go, just not on a plane. When I was preparing for childbirth, I learned a visualization technique that served me well when the time came, and still serves me now, when I need to get away. Usually at the dentist’s office. I close my eyes, and I’m back on the reef.

It wasn’t a surprise to me that getting braces on Wednesday invoked a strong need for Jamaica. The procedure itself went quickly, with tranquil visions of trumpetfish and sergeant majors and bi-color damselfish swimming in warm green water. The next day at work, I played a little quiet reggae, a soothing familiar rhythm to counter the unfamiliar feel of metal in my mouth.

The best bit of Jamaica came Friday lunchtime, though, when I nearly cleaned my plate at Back-A-Yard. Who knew that a Jamaican feast of jerk salmon, plantains, and red beans and rice, washed down with a cold bottle of Ting, would be the perfect food for sore teeth?

Braces might deprive me of alot of things, but Jamaica isn’t one of them. And that is truly irie.