Touch me, Dr. Love!

In my quest to reduce the size of my ass, I paid a ridiculous amount of money for a personal trainer at the gym. My trainer was short, skinny, and totally annoying. She was 21, talked about how she loved to run for miles, and would point out all the men she had dated at the gym. Like I cared. Stop talking and make my ass smaller, lady!!

Being chubby does not mean I'm weak. I used to play sports growing up, I can still run a mile faster than most of my friends, and I can bench press midgets. My trainer saw just how strong I was and began to work me out as thought I was training for the Olympics. She started to have me do things that she would do herself to stay in shape. Things which included jumping on and off a large stool.

Chubby girls should not jump off of stools. Or anything, for that matter. I jumped and ended up tearing my MCL. I spent the next month limping, not able to bend my knee, and in constant pain. After almost 6 weeks, I finally gave in and went to see the Orthopedic Surgeon. My insurance allowed me to pick the doctor I wanted to see, so I picked the cutest one. We shall call him Dr. Love.

He was tall, handsome, from Chicago, and a surgeon. I couldn't wait for him to touch my knee. My first appointment consisted of a lot of giggling and seduction ... with my eyes. At the end of my appointment, Dr. Love asked if I was Persian. How could he know such a thing? His response: "You have big, beautiful, Persian eyes." He totally wants me, YES!

Before I left, he placed his hand on my shoulder, told me to take care of my knee and that he'd see me again in two weeks. I had two weeks to figure out how to make him love me.

For my second appointment, I had an agenda. My knee was not getting any better and I had a girl's weekend trip to Las Vegas coming up. I needed a shot of cortisone. I knew Dr. Love was against it, he thought I was too young, blah blah blah, but when baby wants something, baby gets it.

I wore a dress to my appointment (easy access to the knee. duh). I made sure to smile, undress him with my eyes, and hang on every word he said. He didn't want to inject me, but I told him he was the only doctor I trusted, the only man that could heal me, my one and only knight in shining armor. He gave in. I had him wrapped around my finger and broken knee and it was only my second appointment.

As he was injecting, I told him that every time he touches my knee, he touches a special place in my heart. Dr. Love giggled. He looked me in the eyes and said "I didn't know the heart was connected to the knee bone!"

We talked for almost 20 minutes about growing up in Chicago, how we love Las Vegas, and our favorite buffets. He put his hand on my shoulder, almost giving me a hug, and told me to have a great time and come back to see him in a few weeks.

I went to Vegas with my friends, had a blast, and my knee didn't bother me one bit the entire time. I got home, printed out a picture of me and the girls, and put it in a card that read:

Dear Dr. Love,

Thank you so much for injecting me. My trip to Las Vegas with the girls was great! You had me feeling like a million bucks. Feel free to call me anytime, when you're not in the office."

I left my phone number, spritzed the card with my perfume, and sent it to my future lover.

Dr. Love called 5 days later. I almost dropped the phone when I heard his voicemail. I waited a few days before returning his call - gotta keep him on his toes! He thanked me for my thoughtful card and wanted to take me to dinner so he could hear all about my trip.

You'd think that an experienced surgeon, who runs a hospital in Uganda in his spare time, has worked with multiple NFL teams, and has performed rare operations, would be cocky, spend the entire time bragging, or just be downright arrogant. Not Dr. Love. He was boring.

In an effort to woo me, in a non bragging kind of way, he didn't speak of any of the cool things he did. He told me of his love for reading next to the fireplace, spending weekends in Aspen and drinking wine, and how he loved the ocean. SIGH.

I had spent years praying to my sweet Baby Jesus to send me a doctor to marry. A tall, dark, handsome doctor. He finally sends me the doctor and forgets to give him a personality.

Lesson Learned:

When praying for your dream man. Be very specific.

Ex: Dear Baby Jesus,

Please send me a 6 foot tall man, with all his teeth and limbs. One who doesn't drink too much and only swears at the TV. Please baby Jesus, let him be a doctor, funny, and have a soft spot for Chihuahuas. Oh, and make sure he washes his hands. Amen.