We pray to be examined by the handsome Dr. Oz and imagine him staring into our eyes, talking heart to heart — about cholesterol.
We hope for the excitement of checking into “General Hospital” when the building is on lockdown because the vendetta between the Spencers and Cassadines means a hit man took a nurse hostage.
Admittedly we hope never to see Dr. House, which would mean we have a rare feverish brain infection from swimming in the Amazon River.
Women do have very special relationships with doctors, though not the kind of special we imagine an appointment with Dr. McDreamy might be.
No, for us regular gals, doctors are the pedigreed professionals we co-pay to inspect and criticize our every physical insecurity — er, attribute. So no surprise that these appointments inspire lots of QuirkOut behaviors.
never be a hypochondriac. She hates going to the doctor even more than her husband does. She admits she gets queasy thinking about her annual physical — although she’s seen the same doctor from puberty through menopause.
Now, we’re no Dr. Drew, but we might prescribe going cold turkey on the “Mystery Diagnosis” show she likes to watch if she has any hope of making it through an exam relaxed enough to register a normal blood pressure.
So as soon as Bridget makes her doctor appointment, she dials up another QuirkOut appointment. She puts a manicure and pedicure on the books — scheduled just ahead of her doctor’s visit.
Not only does she feel acceptably groomed for her exam, she basks in the calming effect of a foot massage. It’s the spoonful of sugar scrub that helps the medicine go down.
Kate Plus Eight Plus the Doctor
Lots of mothers confess that during pregnancy they develop crushes on their OB/GYNs. It’s not that strange, really. It’s just a mild case of the Stockholm syndrome — that phenomenon where hostages feel affection for their captors.
Kelly knows this QuirkOut pattern well. She has four kids. “At a certain point during pregnancy, we feel held prisoner by the doctor,” she said. You can see it in the eyes of third-trimester mothers-to-be in the waiting room.
“Week after week, we’re praying for that magical checkup when we hear there’s progress,” Kelly explains. “Or better yet, that it’s time to induce.”
Yes, the doctor is our captor — until the baby comes along and holds us hostage for the next 18-plus years.
Some doctors visits require a full body scan. A check under the hood, if you will. And this means stripping down to our full glory.
Oh, the dreaded moment of getting into that paper gown. For every woman, it brings up the question: What to do with our clothes? And that brings out our universal QuirkOut ritual.
Whether you’re a slob or an neat freak, you fold your duds into a perfectly tidy stack. Because we can take it when the doctor chastises us for not exercising enough, not wearing sunscreen or forgetting our Flintstones Chewables, but we would never get over her thinking we’re (gasp!) messy.
And of course our bras and panties are carefully hidden in the middle of the orderly pile of clothes. Even though the doctor is about to peek at our most personal zones, we can’t possibly let him see our undergarments.
That’s just way too much information to share.