So I had this skin thing and had to go see the dermatologist. Who was about 12. Male. Incredibly handsome with perfect skin. I hate that. There I am in my undies getting every inch of my skin inspected by Dr. McDreamy. This was not a peak moment for me. The older I get, the more I want my doctors even older. Curmudgeonly would be good, too. No whiff of sexuality at all.
I know I'm not supposed to think about that. But I can't help it. My husband is the only man who sees me naked so I'm not thrilled about stripping down for some random guy, even if he does wear a white coat. I usually try and get female doctors and usually succeed.
Imagine my surprise the time I thought I was getting a female doctor but s/he was a transvestite. That was freaky in its own way. S/He did not make a pretty woman and I wanted to tell him that he wasn't fooling anybody, also that putting on a dress did not a woman make. But, whatever. At least that time I didn't have to get naked. That would have been just too bizarre.
I hate to be one of those cranky old ladies who grills the front line service people before consenting to an appointment, but I'm gonna have to be one the next time I make an appointment. It's just too mortifying to get some hunky young guy checking my vitals. I'm not that Sex and The City gal who can turn any encounter with a man into a Penthouse forum story. Frankly, I wouldn't be surprised if she was really a transvestite. Have you seen her shoulders?
Anyway, the skin thing has been dealt with and I don't have to return for at least another year. By that point, I'll have had time to figure out if it's better to go in matching Victoria Secret bra and panties so I'll feel a little bit of dignity, even whilst in my unmentionables, or if that I should wear my rattiest undergarments so it looks like I just don't care a whit about being seen in my underclothes.
How do you all handle this?
Monday, July 21, 2008
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1 comments:
As one who has advanced to the age where the store clerks all call me "ma'am" and ask if I need help with the groceries (not unless he/she can remember where I parked the car!), I say embrace curmudgeonhood and insist on your favorite species of MD. (Actually, my philosphy is that if time and chocolate won't cure the problem, it must be fatal so who wants to spend her last few minutes in a germy waiting room. Apparently my last MD, who prescribed massage (yay, then insurance pays!), yoga and vitamins for everything must have felt the same way as she gave up a thriving practice to pursue accupunture.) But I digress, we have enough "sparklers" in our thinning hair to demand to be heard by front office staff. (And yes, I can hardly wait for those senior discounts!!!) Also it gives those male whippersnappers a chance to experience what sex discrimination feels like. So save the fancy undies for a happier occasion and demand a crone for the next look over. Time to walk the dog if I can remember where I left the leash.... SD
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