I went to see a naturopathic doctor this past Saturday. A friend of a friend recommended him, and since my husband has high blood pressure and diabetes, I thought it would be great to see if we can complement Western medicine with something natural. Plus, since I work out regularly and my muscles are always sore, I thought I would see if there could be a way to increase my body's ability to create and sustain muscle. 

It was hot as the devil this past weekend; in the Seattle-metro area, it doesn't often get hotter than 80 degrees, thus when the mercury climbed well past 90, I felt so hot I abandoned my pride and went for shorts and a tank top. I don't often do that because, although I've lost plenty of weight, my upper arms are horrific and I still have that lower-belly pooch. It's not cute. Not at all. Still, one can't cover up when it's that hot; one ends up drawing more attention to oneself, defeating the purpose.

Anyway, we were late getting to the clinic - the directions were probably accurate but my sense of direction isn't (Does I-5 North mean I-5 heading north or I-5 from the north?). I hate being late. We walk in, and the doctor is bent over getting water from the dispenser, and when he stood up to greet us I just about fell over: This man, by far, is the finest doctor I've ever seen. I mean, rich, melted-chocolate skin; lovely, twinkly dark eyes; full sexy lips, the works. My immediate thought was, "Holy!! Why the heck did I wear this?" My outfit was something I'd wear on vacation, when I could guarantee none of those people would ever see me again. But how was I going to look at this fine-fine-fine! doctor with my breasts spilling out over the top of the tank? And who knows what else was spilling out where? 

My husband went first. Dr. G. was thorough, and my husband was in there for an hour. My daughter went to sleep on my lap and my son played his Nintendo DS. (Am I the only parent who thinks those things are from the devil himself?) When it was my turn, I went in and sat down, quite uncomfortable. Dr. G. took my vital signs, asking me to move my breast this way and that so he could get a better listen to my lungs. After a long discussion, in which I disclosed intimate details of my sex life; bowel habits; mental, emotional, and physical health; and even my childhood, Dr. G. asked me to get on the scale. 

I don't do that. 

I told him many times, I don't do that.

And since he doesn't know me, he kept insisting. So I finally agreed because he said he could tell how much muscle weight I have, which will go a long way in determining how to increase my metabolism and overall body strength. I made him promise he would not disclose the actual total, just the muscle weight. I kept my promise (I got on the scale); he kept his. The whole time I was mortified: Here he was, Dr. Fine As Heck, sitting at my feet while I got on the scale, writing down four-digit numbers. Okay, three digit numbers, but still. Not even my husband knows how much I weigh. 

After that, it was a long conversation about how he wants me to gain weight - okay, he wants me to gain ten pounds of muscle, and supplements that can help increase my sex drive and decrease my anxiety and overall bitchiness. (What makes him think I need that?) 

I was mad when I left three hours later. I hate talking about my weight, although that was one of the reasons I went. And how incredibly humiliating to share such intimate information with someone who, in any other circumstances, would be my lover? (Yes, I realize that's wishful thinking.) 

So am I going back? You better believe it! Not only is he gorgeous, but he's smart, detailed, specific, caring, and thoughtful. We could all use physicians like that. Maybe I can get him to wear a paper bag, or a GW mask. Then I won't be distracted and we can move on to healing.