Dear C,

Ever wondered what it is exactly that doctors do while you wait for them in the examining room? You know the routine. First, the nurse asks you to strip down to your skivvies (or worse), then hands you a paper hospital gown, which you inevitably put on the wrong way round. Then she leaves, and you are left twiddling your thumbs for……….10, 15, 30 minutes or more. Eventually, you poke your head round the door, and find the hallway to be deserted. Finally, you resort to clutching the now shredded gown shut while you tip-toe barefoot (and bare-assed) down the hallway to the nurses' station, where they stare at you like you just demanded tea and hot-buttered scones with your pap smear. A few minutes later, the doctor shows up, and dismisses your concerns as the fevered imaginings of a woman with too much time, and internet access on her hands. Within nanoseconds, you are dressed and out the door  – except that you inevitably have to return for the prescription he's forgotten to write.

I like to think the doctors spend those intervening moments surveying the live streaming video from the examining rooms, sniggering at the granny panties and placing bets on which patient has less than a year to live. But of course I know doctors are all extremely important and very busy people, handling too many life or death emergencies to waste time like that. It's just weird how those emergencies always seem to happen every time I show up in my most sensible underwear. At least Grandma would be proud.

P.

P,

You know I promised, in our most recent conversation, to keep my response to your frequent and enlightening correspondence out of the realm of the nether regions, not always an easy thing for me.  But you send a missive discussing pap smears and granny panties.  Where can I possibly go with that but spiraling downward?

In the interest of lifting us to new heights, however, I will talk about a recent visit to a new kind of doctor for me: one who examines the mind.  Sadly, it wasn't even the type who gives you a pill to make it feel better, but one with whom you are expected to share your most intimate marital secrets in order to get closer to your spouse.  As you will immediately see, this is, of course, a ridiculous premise and one I discarded b/f entering his office.

Was floored, however, upon entering the therapist's inner sanctum to discover he was already waiting for us with a smile and a handshake (and even an air kiss for me).  Can only assume it is his way of putting clients (notice I will never be his patient) at ease.  Other doctors, I think, leave you naked and exposed as a way of assuming complete control necessary for their often less than thorough exam and diagnosis, but a therapist must do almost the opposite: convince you to expose yourself, voluntarily, to him.

I'm certain you can see where this is heading: yes, I was nearly ready to throw myself at the man by the time we left as he did seem to understand me in a way no man, especially hubby, ever has.  He listened and nodded and didn't even correct me, as hubby feels so often compelled to do, when my white mini-dress snaked a few inches higher than I intended and I exposed myself (and not in a psychologial sense) to him.

He recommended, in the end, that I might need some in-depth and separate therapy even though it was clear to me that only hubby brought any real issues to the gathering.  Left a little puzzled but guess I'll sort all that out next week when I meet him for our private session at the Chevy Chase Lounge. 

In sum, darling P, I hate to dismiss your concerns about the medical profession altogether but my own experience suggests it is worth seeking out someone examining your top end rather than your bottom to get the kind of satisfaction from doctors that we all really need.

C.