I Think I Hear My Cell Phone Vibrating!

I called my doctor’s office last week to make an appointment for an annual physical and blood work. The scheduler said there was a cancellation just before I called, so they were able to see me the very next day.

If you are a male beyond thirty years old, a physical is not such a big deal; except of course for the ‘bend over the table’ routine. For any of you not in the know, when you bend over the table it is also required that your pants and your underwear be around your ankles, head down, butt end facing the doc. It’s the type position made popular at Abu Grhaib.

The idea behind this positioning is that the good doc is going to have a feel of your prostate. The bad news is that the prostate is actually inside the male body. This will leaving you thinking that the good doc is not really so ‘good’ after all.

My doc is male and not really a small person. While he was making his way through the other parts of the exam I kept sneaking furtive and anxious looks at the size of his fingers. This is sort of like looking at the size of the club someone is going to beat you with. There is not anything particularly comforting about seeing a large club. You wish and hope it will be a small club instead.

Not in the case of my doc. Big hands and big fingers. I began to think up ways to avoid the ‘bend over’. Maybe I could feign my cell phone was vibrating and I needed to go into the reception room to take a personal call. Then I could flee and never return. But I didn’t have my shirt, shoes or socks on and the phone was in my jacket hanging on a hook on the wall. I guess it would be a little suspicious if I said I felt it vibrating. I could try a fainting spell, but what the hell, there was a doctor in the room and so that seemed impractical. So I worried and snuck anxious peeks at the size of his gorilla like fingers. Fingers that continued to grow. They were larger each time I looked at them.

My time came. It was not pleasant. It was every bit as painful as I imagined. It was a big club.
My male doc is not gentle. He may even be a sadist for all I could tell. I will leave it at that.

Now the good news. This doc no longer accepts my insurance. This gave me an excellent chance to find a new doc, having a perfectly plausible excuse.

I want a doc with small hands and therefore small fingers. I figured female docs offered me the best percentages for meeting that requirement. Not to mention that I figured a female doc would have a gentler nature, taking a gentle feel of my prostate rather than the destructive nazi style of the previously mentioned big fingered brute.

I got out the phone book and started calling female doc offices. The receptionist would ask if I wanted to come to an initial interview. I kept telling them no; just have the doc put her hand on a copy machine and fax the results to me. They didn’t want to do that. None of them. They asked why. I said it was something personal. They said I was peculiar. I told them they would have to get in line to share that opinion with many others. Their position prevailed and I received not one single fax.

Still looking. And sitting on cushions.