Living Up To The Stereotypes

[Look out. I am starting to feel better, which is restoring some aspects of my personality that are not very refined. Here, I reveal my bigotry toward charming, rich, attractive doctors. To my warped and whithered mind, this makes perfect sense.]

So, I heard something nice about my plastic surgeon the other day. I was in a mastectomy boutique (which deserves its own blog entry...) yesterday, buying a camisole to wear when I want to launder my hospital-issued corset thing. Did you know that foundation garments for the newly boobless are covered by insurance? No kidding. So, the owner was taking down my insurance info and asked who my doctor was. I told her and she looked up sharply. "Dr. S.? Well, you ARE one of the lucky ones! I have to tell you that I have seen a lot of reconstructions come through here. Some are horrible, some are OK, some are really good. But Dr. S. does incredible work. His reconstructions are nothing short of miraculous." I thought, "Alright, alright. No need to have an orgasm. Geeze!" But it did put a little spring in my step, for sure. Reassuring too, to think about it today when I was in his treatment room (again) (I'm starting to feel like a fixture)looking carefully in the other direction while he debrided the NOLS (Nipple On Life Support) ("Great! That is bleeding a lot! Blood supply is a good thing!"), picked out sutures and shot more stuff into the tissue expander (AKA Boob-Stretcher/The Anvil /The Turtle). I thought, "You should tell him. What a nice compliment!" Then I thought, "I wonder of fawning women tell him how marvelous he is all day long."

I wish I would find out something about Dr. S. that would overturn my prejudices about the poor man. But all the evidence points in one direction: he's a smug frat-boy:

1. He's REALLY good-looking. Fit, tan, blue-eyed, about 55 years old. Southern accent. (The angel of my better nature wants to know how I can hate a person for being beautiful. It's not his fault.)


2. His practice is in Draper. People from Utah will understand that a well-known plastic surgeon WOULD have his practice in Draper. More boob-jobs per capita than any other community in the Intermountain West. (Well that just makes him practical...)


3. His offices are pretentious as hell. I mean, when Mom was here and took me to an appointment, we walked into the waiting room and she said, "Oh, my." Flagstone floors, 8-foot doors, fireplace, throne-like chairs in distressed leather, lots of wrought iron. It just needs some big, drippy candles and a jacuzzi, and he could rent it out for porn shoots. Mom didn't even see the second reception area. It has a fountain, objects d'art and a bronze of a perfectly proportioned woman dipping her toe into some non-existent pond. "Please. Doctor Frat-Boy, make me look like the woman in the statue! I don't care how much it costs!" He didn't get this office by reconstructing mastectomies. He must do a booming business in cutie-pies. (HAH! The angel has no rejoinder?)


4. Although my "medical name" is Katherine and I have asked him to call me Kate, he persists in calling me Kathleen. I don't really care. I don't bother correcting him. (So, why berate him for it now?) Yes, I know. The sainthood train has left the station. I missed it.

The thing is, we have to spend rather a lot of time together, so I'd like to like him. I try to perceive some sort of appealing dorkiness, but it's hard work. This is the best I can come up with:

1. He wears shoes with tassels. With his scrubs.
2. He perches his readers on his forehead, and they fall down on to his nose whenever he raises his eyebrows.

I just sat here for about 5 minutes trying to think of other humanizing factors, but have come up dry. He is fairly god-like. This is a good thing in a health-care provider, but it makes me want to find fault in order to equalize the relationship a little. After all, this Adonis is picking my scabs off.