Chunky matron seeks...

...older, wrinkled, grandfatherly sort of doctor — must be at least 65 or look it — to serve the many health needs of a nearsighted, allergy-prone, mole-checking, still-of-reproductive-age hypochondriac.

Hot or even mildly cute young doctors should not bother to apply.

I'm on a hot-doctor roll these days, and I say now: "ENOUGH ALREADY! My ego is fragile. My body isn't what it used to be. I'm not in any condition, mentally or physically, to disrobe in front of men MY AGE. Or ... *sob* ... younger."

In the past year, I have —

— been to an ER inhabited by the most beautiful medical staff ever.

— gone to a dermatologist to report all suspicious moles, only to be passed off to Hot Doctor No. 1. One of the moles in question was ON MY ASS.

— gone to the family clinic only to be assigned a doctor who is at least two years younger than me. (Yes, I Googled him. I had to know.)

— been referred to an orthapedic surgeon — yes, another hottie — with whom the following dialogue took place:

Cathy: Yeah, the shoulder is improving, but I still can't ... you know ... reach my arm all the way behind my back.

Hot Doctor: (Looks puzzled.)

Cathy: You know — (*reaches behind back and mimes fastening a bra*)
(oh for god's sake, Cathyyoufuckingidiot, entire crowds have gathered around your crotch in recent years. Just say it. Bra. B-R-A. arrghhh...)

Doctor: Yes, well, just — (*doctor mimes fastening a bra in the front and then sliding it around the chest*)

Cathy: That's a pain in the ass. (did i just say that?)

Doctor: OK, well, just buy one that fastens in the front.

Cathy: Um ... yeah.

(Oh, great. I haven't even hit 40, but I'm reduced to buying the Arthritis Bra? I mean, look at it:



I am SO not ready for that. Still, I wasn't about to argue this point with Hot Doctor when I couldn't even say "bra." Because then what if I actually had to say "breasts?" Ack!)

I was still blushing when I reached the car.

WTF?!!!!

Have age and childbearing really turned me into such a prudish, stammering moron?

Nah.

I mean, clearly I have no problem talking about any number of very personal issues right here in cyber-public.

And countless male co-workers who've had the misfortune to sit next to me during my pregnancies probably know waaaay more about my girly bits than Hubs ever will.

(Wanna see a male reporter haul ass across the newsroom? Just say, "Bloody mucous plug." Works every time.)

And I have no problem discussing any number of health issues with older, ordinary-looking doctors — ingrown pubic hairs, for example. Or whether certain acts of marital bliss ... ahem ... during pregnancy really do shoot air into the va jay jay, which, as we all know from the Devil Pregnancy Book, is a bad thing because it can lead to one getting an air embolism. Down there. *shudder* And you could like, die. While Hubs is still giving it his all. (how long before he would notice? hmmm...)

It's just that the young doctors make me feel so self-conscious. A lot of them don't yet have kids, so you just know they're totally unfamiliar with a woman's postpartum pooch or nipples that no pasty could cover.

When I have to bare all for them, I suddenly realize: If Hubs dies or we ever got divorced, this is what I would be dealing with if I ever wanted to have sex again. My dating pool would be limited to much-older-men-who-already-have-fathered-children, men whose ass sag could rival my boob sag, and who therefore wouldn't be as appalled (as I am) by my body's "used" condition.

Regardless — where is my senior citizen crowd of medical professionals? Get rid of all these McDreamy and McSteamy types who make me blush and babble. Bring the gray-hairs out of retirement. Please. Now.

Because if I ever decide I want a tummy tuck, or maybe to have the girls hoisted back up to ye old place of glory, well, I'd rather my doctor be so ancient that he sees my 37-year-old body as positively youthful. ("Oh, my dear. You certainly don't need any work done yet. These are the breasts of a 30-year-old. Truly. But if you insist...")