Dr. Who?

The new chiropractor is working out well. At the first visit, I walked in with my entourage of two kids whose volume level shakes skyscrapers, a wailing, hungry baby, and big, droopy, leaking boobs. He greeted me with, "Don't worry. I have three kids, too."

Thank god!

The receptionists helped watch them while I got xrayed. Yes, I finally consented to xrays. What can I say? He was very convincing. And it doesn't hurt that he's cute, too. Oh, haven't I mentioned that he's cute? Yeah. Adorable. Smokin' bod. Gorgeous eyes. Sparkling smile. He even smells good. It totally sucks.

I hate good looking doctors and if I had the time, I'd run for office just so I could propose legislation that would outlaw good looking people from practicing medicine. There really is NOTHING worse than standing bare but for a hospital gown, big saggy tits drooping down to the waistline, fleshy belly hanging loosely, dimpled ass sticking out the back, while a spiffly dressed, slickly coiffed, hard bodied Dr. Studly Hotterson does his examination. Or, in my case, redoes the xrays as he explains "You're just too thick to get accurate xrays. We'll have to retake them from a different angle and hope for the best."

Yeah, mortifying.

It reminds me of an incident I had once with a dermatologist. You see, I had this mole. It was down... down there... in the nether regions. It was big and growing. It looked just like those moles they print in pamphlets and leave lying around tanning booths. I'd ignored it, let it go and let it go. I really did not want to go in to have it examined. I just kept envisioning the scenario.

The doctor walks in and says, "What can I do for you today, Ms... [looks down at the chart] Peet?"

"Well, doctor, I've got a little something I'd like you to have a look at. If you'd just come just come a little closer [as I spread open my legs]... No, no, closer, Doc! You're gonna have to get a lot closer. It's down here. Just take a peak. Come on! Just a peak!"

So you see, I really dreaded the whole thing.

Finally, one day, I mustered up the courage and pulled out the preferred provider list from our insurance. It listed all the dermatologists in the Tampa Bay area. I decided the least painful way this whole mole exam could play out was if the doctor I went to was an old, crinkled up man with hardly any memory left. I scanned the list over and again for about an hour searching for a name that said I'm over 70 with one foot in the nursing home and I'll never remember your face if I see you on the street. I found a mile long Greek name that just screamed out OLD. It was something like Wrinkledupolis Oldmanos. I called, made my appointment, and showed up on the prescribed day.

After taking off all my clothing and doffing the flimsy paper gown I'd been handed, I settled in on the exam table, complete with comfy paper liner. I sat swinging my legs and trying to keep my mind on things going on at work (I was working on a pretty big political campaign at the time). Then came that simultaneous knock and walk that doctors are infamous for. I looked up fully expecting to see Wrinkledupolis and was met face on with Adonis.

Oh my god, was he a fine looking man. One of the best I've ever met. So fine that I wanted to jump down off the table and make a run for it, but I didn't want to go back to the office without my clothes on. I resisted the urge to scream out, "I've been duped! Where's the old man? Get me a doctor over 60! How dare you be so hot!" Instead, I turned a shade of crimson not easily found in nature and began to tell him my tale of the yoni mole.

"Well, let's have a look at that mole, then," he said.

I wanted to die.

While he removed the mole he asked me what I did for a living and we immediately started talking politics. Lucky me. Not only was the doctor who was removing the grotesque mole from my privates Hotty McStud instead of the Shrivel Prunerson I'd ordered, but it seemed Hotty McStud was a Democratic contributor. Most excellent. Oh, and isn't that interesting, he knows my boss. How lovely. Yes, yes, in fact, he knows quite a few of the people I work with. Gee, great.

"Would you please take your robe off so I can do a total body mole check?" he asked.

There I stood, naked as the day I came into the world as he chatted up about the recent Democratic races.

"Do you know about the golf fundraiser tomorrow?" he inquired as he inspected my skin for any suspicious lesions.

"Yes, I'm on the planning team," I told him while trying not to exhale as I sucked in my belly and prayed to die.

"Great, will I see you there?"

"I'm sure. I'll be there all day. Find Bob and you'll find me," I informed him while making a note of staying as far away from Bob as possible.

"Cool. I'm on a team with some college friends of mine," he said, then added, "Could you lift your breasts so I can check underneath."

I did as I was told. I stood there, freaking butt ass naked, one breast in each hand, hoisted up high so that the hottest doctor in all of Florida could peer under in search of moles. And if that wasn't enough, then came the corker.

"I'll buy you a drink tomorrow and you can tell me all about what it is you do," he said, taking a break from his search to flash me a Ken doll grin and a wink.

Needless to say, I spent the whole next day hiding, literally hiding from the man. I'd jump into the bathroom, hide behind people bigger than me. At one point I even held up a golf bag in front of me just to get out of his line of sight.

And I never, never, ever went back to any dermatologist again.

The mole, by the way, was benign despite its appearance -- which makes the whole fucking doctor's visit even more of a tragedy that could have been avoided.

So far so good with the chiropractor, though. His good looks are off set by his fatherhood and understanding of my beasts. We'll see how long this all lasts.