This is something that can be particularly awkward. I mean, really, why do doctors have to be hot anyway? It just makes everything weird.
I must say, I’ve only ever been to 2 doctors that happened to be hot.
The first time was about 2 ½ years ago, when I developed this rash. It started as one spot on my stomach, then the next day two more, then the next day, more still, until I woke up one Sunday morning covered in spots all over my torso. And the worst part was, I was flying out to theUSfor a month away that same week. So naturally, I went to the doctor immediately to try to first of all find out what on earth was wrong with me, and secondly, to clear it up.
Being a Sunday, my regular GP was closed, so I had to go see some random doctor in my local medical centre. So I exchanged all the necessary details with the receptionist and waited in the waiting room. When the doctor finally came out and called my name, I smirked. He was pretty cute! So it was terribly embarrassing when I had to explain to this good-looking man that I was covered in an unsightly rash all over my torso, and naturally, being the doctor, he had to take a look, which meant I had to remove my top.
Good grief I am taking my top off in front of this good looking man, I thought to myself. And because I am generally hopeless at concealing my thoughts or emotions, I blushed and smiled, which made him a little nervous, which made me more nervous, which made me smirk more, and then because I thought he knew what I was thinking, it just made it completely weird, and he actually looked down at the floor.
“Pityriasis rosea” he said as he handed me a fact sheet. My sister in law laughs every time I bring up that disease. And she laughs even more when I explain that it all begins with one spot which is referred to as a “herald” because it heralds the fact that you will soon be covered. Google it. I was so unlucky to have gotten that when I did.
The next hot doctor was one I saw around 1 ½ years ago. I had returned from a trip away toGreece, and although I have olive skin, I was concerned about skin cancer, so I went along to the skin cancer clinic to get checked.
Now this doctor was a little older, but what one would refer to as a “silver fox”, and although it wasn’t as mortifying as the “pityriasis rosea” incident, it was still enough to make me blush. When I get embarrassed and blush, I also overheat like menopause has swept in to take hold of me 20 years too soon. So upon seeing this handsome doctor, I naturally blushed when he asked me to remove all of my clothing except for my underwear, and the room was suddenly too hot.
Because it was winter and I tend to dress in layers, it took me forever to remove all of the clothing I had on. First my hat, then coat, then jumper, then singlet, then boots, socks, and finally my jeans. He looked over me thoroughly – and when I say thoroughly, I mean under my breasts, through my scalp, between my toes – and concluded that I was lucky that I have olive skin and that I didn’t need to come back for another 5 years. He was mature enough not for his feathers not to get ruffled by my obvious smirking and blushing, but my gosh, good looking doctors should really not be allowed.