The handsome doctor fell in love with me! It was amazing. And then I screwed it up. Thank God, it was only a dream—but what a wonderful dream it was ❤
The handsome doctor seemed startled when he first saw me. Then he stared. His blue eyes were clear and drew me in.
“Hello,” I said, a little breathless.
The sound broke the spell and he blinked. He ran his hand thru his dandy brown hair. I took a minute to take him in: 5’10”, average build—not fat, not too thin, just right—strong chin, bold cheekbones. Perfection personified.
My son’s appointment went well. At 20 years old, he didn’t need me there. However, since he lives with me and I was concerned about him, I drove him to the doctor’s office. When the doctor had concluded his exam, diagnosed, and proscribed medicine, he told Julian that he was free to go. Then he looked at me and asked me for a private word.
“This is a bit awkward. Technically, no—really, you aren’t my patient. Your adult son is. Right?”
I nodded, wondering where this was going. I figured that he’d tell me that I should let me son go to the doctor alone. How embarrassing; I’d become a helicopter parent and now a doctor was going to tell me to let my son grow up! As the doctor stalled, I became more anxious, steeling myself for a scolding.
“May I take you to dinner sometime?” He asked.
I was stunned.
He continued. “I cannot, do not, date my patients. Which is why I’m so happy that you’re not my patient.” He smiled. I melted. “May I have your number?”
I smiled and handed him my business card. I couldn’t form a coherent thought.
“Hmmm, your work card—mechanical engineer, very impressive! Oh, yes, your cell phone number is on here. I’ll call you, then?”
I nodded. “Yes, please.”
He smiled again and the room lit up. “Excellent! I have to go—patients waiting. Say, can you take these to the receptionist?” He handed me some plastic anatomy models.
Surprised, I said, “sure.” I thought that the models stayed in the room, but I must’ve been wrong. I smiled at the doctor and he smiled back until a nurse called him away—whether two minutes or 20, I couldn’t say. Sigh.
With him gone, I could think again. What the hell just happened? OMG the handsome doctor asked me out! YAY! And he doesn’t think that I’m a helicopter parent—double YAY!
I floated to the reception desk, where three people were standing. Since the receptionist was clearly busy, I put down the model on the side of her desk and walked to the waiting room. (Jack and I had paid on the way in.)
In the car on the way home, it hit me: the doctor was probably a player. He asked out ladies (probably moms, since he doesn’t date patients) (if I can believe that) all the time. I was nothing special. “Calm down, Jules,” I told myself, “breathe.”
Still, I went out with him to a fancy dinner. It was perfect. He opened doors, listened attentively, etc. “What’s wrong with him?” I asked myself.
On the second date, we went out with friends. Allison followed me to the bathroom and said with admiration, “He really likes you! And you’re just as beautiful and intelligent as he said. And funny too!”
Ok now his friends like me, too? This is just too much! “How often does he date? I mean, does he bring girls to meet you much?”
Surprised by my question, she frowned. “No, he hasn’t brought a date out in months. We were beginning to think that he’d given up on finding someone. Don’t you like him?” Allison was no longer smiling. She looked suspicious.
Damn, I’m screwing this up. “Of course, it’s just that—he’s too perfect, you know?”
She smiled politely, not understanding, not responding, and left.
I realized that she’d report the conversation to her boyfriend, who would then tell his best friend—Dr. Wonderful. Fuck. Why couldn’t I just be happy?
Later he gets a call and says, “It’s a patient, I have to take this.”
I smile and step away. What if it’s his other girlfriend? Why would a patient call so late? I go back to my purse, which is hanging on the chair by the doctor, making a fuss of looking for my cell phone (supposedly). He does seem to be discussing symptoms. He gives me a dirty look and mouths, “Doctor/patient confidentiality.”
I say, “Sorry, looking for my cell phone.”
He points to my back pocket, where my cell phone is.
“Oops,” I say, and smile, backing away.
He frowns at me and goes back to his phone call.
So what does this mean? I can’t be happy, even if I find the perfect guy? Fuck fuck fucketity fuck.
Allison called me two days later. “I’m sorry that I judged you,” she said. Oh, great, she’s perfect, too; she’s apologizing for her mean thoughts! “I want you to know something. He admitted that the reason that he asked you to take the plastic models to the receptionist, was, his ex-wife wouldn’t life a finger for the medical practice. She would say things like, ‘I don’t work for you! Besides, it’s probably covered in germs.’ He asked you to take the models to the receptionist so that she could give you the once-over. He didn’t trust his own instincts. Which is also why he wanted you to meet his friends on the second date.” She took a deep breath, then continued, “He thinks that you’re pretty perfect, too.”
“Why are you telling me all this?” I asked.
“Because he won’t. And like I said, I felt pretty bad about how I judged you the other night. I hope that we can be friends.”
Wow. I didn’t blow it! Happy dance!!
It was a really good dream. I super enjoyed it. It gives me hope that such a perfect man would choose me—even if it’s only in my dreams. And maybe, just maybe, I won’t screw it up by being cynical!
I’ve always had large breasts. That is, I started developing at age 12 and had C-cups by age 13. After I had the children, they grew to be D-cups. So since middle school, I have been accustomed to seeing people’s eyelids as they talked to me. I found out quickly that I could increase the effect by wearing lower and tighter shirts. Alternatively, I could cover up in loose clothes and have a much better chance of getting eye contact.
Now I’m 40 years old and my breasts are still a source of fascination. It’s not just the guys staring, either. I was embarrassed when my daughter’s friend’s mother stared at my chest while we were discussing a play date. Similarly, I know that my neckline is too low for work when my female boss’s eyes are drawn to it subconsciously.
So when I dress up in a tight, low-cut blouse and go out with my friends, I expect—no, I am screaming for—attention. Two incidents recently knocked me down a notch and showed me that my breasts aren’t as special as they once were.
I should mention that I moved to Dallas in 2006; prior to that, I lived in Austin. The cities have very different atmospheres, which may play a part in my confusion.
The first was at a Mavs game. I figured that I’d get attention there if I wore a sack, with all that testosterone in one stadium. Boy, was I wrong. My friend Diana and I walked around the bar and no one looked at us. I was completely shocked. The game wasn’t even that interesting at that point. (I’m not knocking the Mavs; I’m just saying, it was a slow point, that’s all.)
So I told Diana, sticking out my chest and pointing to my beautiful mountains, “What do I have to do, walk around with a sign that says, ‘They’re real’?!”
To which she replied, “What’s wrong with fake ones?”
I paused only a moment before responding, “Oh, they’re lovely, when did you get them?”
“February,” she answered.
So much for the Mavs game; the guys were desensitized to breasts from all the silicone that Dallas women had paid for over the years. It was everywhere. And this was just my first taste.
Since I was having trouble meeting guys outside of work, I went online to get a date. A very handsome man contacted me. Nathan was thoughtful and kind; he asked how my sick mother was doing and we exchanged several emails. After weeks of getting to know each other, we arranged to meet in person at a local bar. The whole thing went badly from the beginning: he was 15 minutes late. That’s especially annoying since I make it a point to always be early.
Nathan was a little older than his pictures. Online he had raven black hair and a trim build. In person, gray flecked his short black hair and he had an average build. I sighed. Well, he was still handsome, and since we’d gotten to know each other online, I figured that I’d stay an hour.
“Sorry I’m late. My ex-wife called me as I was heading out the door.” He shook his head with a grim purse of his lips. He told me about the call, even though I clearly wasn’t interested.
Then he asked me how my date had gone the night before. In general, it’s bad etiquette to talk about other guys on a date; especially a first date. However, since he had shared about his ex-wife, I chose to answer honestly. “It didn’t go well. I told the guy that I didn’t kiss on the first date, so he made a big show of kissing my hand.” I rolled my eyes.
Nathan laughed. “He couldn’t take a hint, huh? I guess the rest of the date didn’t go any better?”
I shook my head. “There were no sparks. The guy was great online, with a great profile, and I love that he’s an engineer. The date was fine, but I probably won’t go out with him again.”
“When I was dating my ex-wife…” Nathan began, and proceeded to tell me about his ex. Again. In detail.
I tried to change the subject a few times. “So, how’s work?”
“She called me at work, too!” he responded, and launched into another My Ex-Wife is the Devil story. He bitched about his ex-wife for almost an hour. Five minutes of that is too much, especially on a first date.
I was about to leave when Nathan pointed out Barbie. He nodded his head in her direction with a look at me, as if to say, “Look at her!”
Ok, her name may not have been “Barbie.” That’s just what she reminded me of: a totally unrealistic, plastic version of a human female. She was blonde with a big Dallas hairdo, fitting tank top dress (pink, of course), and heels so high that her feet where in a fixed pirouette. Her chest, which was straining against the dress and was determined to bust through (pun intended), looked like two soccer balls. Ok, maybe not quite as large as soccer balls; a little smaller.
What was I supposed to say?! Was he expecting me to hit on her? Cause she really wasn’t my type (hello, I like men!). If any of my friends from Austin had pointed her out, we would have noted her total fakeness. So I made the most obvious comment, “Her chest is a little much, don’t you think?”
“What? That’s what I’m used to. Are you sensitive because yours are so small?” Nathan said.
Seriously. A grown man looked at me and called my breasts SMALL. I was incredulous. Needless to say, that was our only date. Not just because he insulted me; talking about the ex-wife the whole time and ogling other women just isn’t what I like to do on dates.
Then he kissed my hand. After I had told him that I didn’t kiss on the first date and that my date the night before had turned me off by doing exactly that. Ya. No second date for Nathan!!
So what’s a girl to do? Growing up, I had a super power. Now, it’s intermittent. Good thing that I have a charming personality and incredible intelligence to get me by. Still, I miss being able to hypnotize guys with a single neckline adjustment. Sigh, those were the days.
And I hate paying speeding tickets.