So several weeks ago, I found a tick in the crease of my inner thigh.

Due to the rather intimate location, I had to ask Hubs to remove it for me. Nothing says romance like having to ask your spouse to pull out a parasite that’s taken up residence dangerously close to the ladybits.

It’s been three weeks, and the bite still itches, prompting me to ask Hubs nightly if he’s sure he got the whole tick out.

My greatest fear? That it’s either infected or I’m coming down with a raging case of Lyme’s, thereby requiring me to visit my family practitioner — who is male and YOUNGER than me — for an inspection of said bite.

In days of old, I never cared much about the age or gender of my doctors. Now, however, I’ve become a bit obsessive, Googling each new physician to see how old he is.

Ladies, I have been the not-so-proud, much-older patient of countless doctors in recent years.

Back in July 2007, I wrote this post on my old blog. It still very much applies.

Chunky matron seeks …

… older, wrinkled, grandfatherly sort of doctor — must be at least 65 or look it — to serve the many health needs of a nearsighted, allergy-prone, mole-checking, still-of-reproductive-age hypochondriac.

Hot or even mildly cute young doctors need not bother to apply.

I’m on a hot-doctor roll these days, and I say now: “ENOUGH ALREADY! My ego is fragile. My body isn’t what it used to be. I’m not in any condition, mentally or physically, to disrobe in front of men MY AGE. Or … *sob* … younger.”

In recent years, I have —

— been to an ER inhabited by the most beautiful medical staff ever. Granted, I was very drugged, but I swear I must have accidentally landed on the set of Grey’s Anatomy.

— gone to a dermatologist to report all suspicious moles, only to be passed off to Hot Doctor No. 1. One of the moles in question was ON MY REAR.

— been referred to an orthopedic surgeon — yes, another hottie — with whom the following dialogue took place:

Cathy: Yeah, the shoulder is improving, but I still can’t … you know … reach my arm all the way behind my back.

Hot Doctor: (Looks puzzled.)

Cathy: You know — (*reaches behind back with good arm and mimes fastening a bra*)
(oh for pete’s sake, Cathyyouidiot, entire crowds have gathered around your hoo-ha during childbirth. Just say it. Bra. B-R-A. arrghhh…)

Doctor: Yes, well, just — (*doctor mimes fastening a bra in the front and then sliding it around the chest*)

Cathy: That’s a pain in the ass. (did i just say that?)

Doctor: OK, well, just buy one that fastens in the front.

Cathy: Um … yeah.

(Oh, great. I haven’t even hit 40, but I’m reduced to buying the Arthritis Bra? I mean, look at it:

I am SO not ready for that. Still, I wasn’t about to argue this point with Hot Doctor when I couldn’t even say “bra.” Because then what if I actually had to say “breasts?” Ack!)

I was still blushing when I reached the car.

Have age and childbearing really turned me into such a prudish, stammering moron?

Nah.

I mean, clearly I have no problem talking about any number of very personal issues right here in cyber-public.

And countless male co-workers who’ve had the misfortune to sit next to me during my pregnancies probably know waaaay more about my girly bits than Hubs ever will.

(Wanna see a male reporter haul ass across the newsroom? Just say, “Mucous plug.” Works every time.)

And I have no problem discussing any number of health issues with older, ordinary-looking doctors — like whether certain acts of marital bliss … *cough* … during pregnancy really do shoot air into the va jay jay, which, as we all know from the Devil Pregnancy Book, is a bad thing because it can lead to one getting an air embolism. Down there. And you could like, die.

It’s just that the young doctors make me feel so self-conscious. A lot of them don’t yet have kids, so you just know they’re totally unfamiliar with a woman’s postpartum pooch or nipples that no pasty could cover.

Where is my senior citizen crowd of medical professionals? We must banish all these McDreamy and McSteamy types who make me blush and babble. Bring the gray-hairs out of retirement. Please. Now.

Because if I ever decide I want a tummy tuck, or maybe to have the girls hoisted back up to ye old place of glory, well, I’d rather my doctor be so ancient that he sees my 37-year-old body as positively youthful. (“Oh, my dear. You certainly don’t need any work done yet. These are the breasts of a 30-year-old. Truly. But if you insist…”)