I have a stash of blood test forms, handed to me by doctors, upon which I’ve just never quite followed through. Tests for testosterone levels and metabolic workups. I’ve stashed them to the side, knowing that I’d follow through come the new year. Despite my frequent visits to a dermatologist and gynecologist, I haven’t been to a general internist in years. Lately, I’ve had problems acquiring my Androgel (Testosterone gel) because my insurance company won’t cover it, despite medical necessity, and paperwork from my doctor. Yet, they’ll happily cover it for a man. “So,” I sweetened to Phil. “When’s your next doctor’s appointment? Isn’t it time for your annual?”

A day later, Phil texted that he’d made his appointment. I returned his text, asking for the doctor’s contact information. I’d schedule one for myself, why not. I followed through and am due in his office, after a six-hour fast, this Friday afternoon. Though as the day approaches, my curiosity kicks in. By whom was this doctor recommended, what is his background? If I get robe-naked in front of him, he’d better not be dishy.

Phil tells me that he went to this doctor last year, seemed good enough, North Shore/LIJ Medical affiliation. I begin to panic, only slightly. “Is he young, do you remember?”
“I don’t know. What’s young?”
Good God, don’t pussyfoot around man. Just as I’d never date a man who could fit into my jeans, I don’t want a doctor who could possibly try to hit on me at a bar. I’m ageist, and would prefer someone in his early 60s. And Phil’s response, or lack of one, tells me all I need to know.

Still, I hit up the internet and learn that he’s 43, younger than my husband. Why is this any type of issue for me? Because! Because I’m happy to show you my ugly if you are in fact ugly, too. There it is. I’ll never understand these handsome popular doctors, where the older ladies line up to sit on his table, perfuming themselves, applying lipstick. I want Doc Hog.