I just told a doctor I met not two hours ago that I wanted to jump his bones.
Let me start from the beginning.
I had been whining about my neck pain for a little while. About 6 years, give or take. You know, the regular, "Wagh, my neck hurts, wagh I can't move, wagh I beg you to shoot me with this assault rifle." So when I finally got around to going to the doctor, I was actually quite pleased to hear that, yes indeed, there was something wrong.
"Yup, your neck is all kinds of f**ked up," my Doctor said. Besides a disc bulging out like the hunchback of Notre Dame, I had arthritis and a narrowing of the spinal column, and I'm not even technically middle-aged yet. He sent me an email of my neck x-ray, which I promptly made my Facebook profile picture. What can I say? I have no shame.
My social calendar started to fill up with physical therapists, MRI's and writing checks for what my insurance company wouldn't cover. Then I met up with my new neurosurgeon, a Prada suited Adonis straight off a New York runway. I immediately felt under-dressed. Seriously, who gets a hot doctor nowadays? I thought it was just all "Grey's Anatomy" crap. And while he's rambling on about surgeries and fusing discs, all I could think about was "I should have worn a slinky dress and heels. I should have gotten that pedicure."
At some point, I cued back into why I was there, sorta, and we discussed options. We decided neck surgery was the next step, as I'd done the physical therapy, an epidural (they're not just for childbirth anymore) and got nowhere. I was to report next week for an out patient procedure. And this time in a pencil skirt and Christian Louboutin's, damnit.
So a week later, I show up at 7 a.m. to some fancy ass Beverly Hills Surgical Building that I'm sure has seen its share of face-lifts. I was greeted with 20 pages of forms to fill out and a $1000 bill for what my insurance would NOT be paying for. They promised to bill the rest later. I took that as a good sign. They believed I'd live long enough to pay the bill.
After sitting in a waiting room with 20 stand-ins for "The Golden Girls" I made my way back for the actual surgery. I changed into the ever-flattering patient gown, disposable underwear, hair net and booties. Feeling like a human garbage bag, I sauntered over to my waiting bed.
Then, he walked in. Actually, a different he. I'll call him Dr. McSweet-Ass, partly because I am not sure about his real name was and partly because that's what his name should be. Seriously, you could bounce a quarter of this guy's butt and believe me, I wanted to try. He was beautiful. Chiseled cheekbones, great smile, biceps, triceps and quadruple-iceps. And he was asking me questions. Like my weight and if I had gone "number two" this morning. You know, what every girl wants to share with a hot doctor.
I somehow turned it around and next thing you know we were discussing our favorite movies and I found myself laughing flirtatiously. I went to twirl my hair and then I remembered. I'm wearing a hair net and a paper diaper. I'm NOT getting lucky tonight.
Just then Dr. Prada Pants cruised in. To talk about little things:
Dr. Prada Pants opened with, "Ok, well, I just want to go over a few of the possible risks from this procedure: You could suffer from some temporary numbness, a little soreness, partial to full paralysis or death."
This puts me at ease.
"Well, I'm kinda the 'if it's my time, it's my time' type of girl," I said cheerfully.
Doc Prada Pants replied, "Yeah, I don't think it's your time today."
Awesome. I feel so much better!
Then he asked me if I had any questions. With my impending death swimming in my head, I came up with my most pressing inquiry.
I asked him what music they will be playing in the procedure room.
Doctor Prada Pants' mouth dropped, "What? Um, I'm not thinking of any in there, why?"
I explained, "Well, when I got my colonoscopy, my doctor played, "Baby Got Back" for me."
This got his attention. "Really?"
I immediately realized this may be the least sexiest sentence I have ever uttered and it may be my last.
We settled on The Clash's "Straight to Hell" and he walked off to scrub up.
Just as I'm preparing to meet my maker, another patient is wheeled in, sobbing. Sobbing. In between wails, she's screaming, "I'm so scared. I'm so scared!"
Wow, I thought, She's getting neck surgery too. Or maybe getting a brain tumor removed.
And just as my heart goes out to her, I heard the nurse try to console her by saying this:
"It's OK, honey. Just think, you won't have to pad your bras ever again. You're going to have the breasts all women want."
Are you kidding me?
I'm going in to become a human PEZ dispenser and this whiny broad is getting new boobs. For the hell of it?
I was just about to really give her something to cry about when the two orderlies grabbed me and wheeled me away. I could hear The Clash playing as I drifted off to no man's land...
The next thing I know, Doctor McSweet-Ass and a nurse are standing in front of me.
Now, you know that feeling when you're still kind of asleep and you don't really know what you're saying? Well, I had that moment, times ten. It was like watching a movie ... of a big giant train wreck.
I opened my mouth and to the nurse I said, "God, he's so hot. How can you work with him? Don't you want to jump his bones?" I vaguely remember him laughing and walking off.
Then about ten minutes later, I started to realize I might have made an ass out of myself.
The nurse came back and I asked, "Did I say something really stupid?"
To which she laughed and answered, "Oh but honey. It's so true."
Luckily, I was still drugged enough to not really care.
On another note, the surgery was a success and I made a full recovery.
My ego is still touch and go.