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with this hot guy who sounds like Javiar Bardem—okay, it was twice—and then he moved in across the street and since then he’s brought home two hundred women, so I’m really starting to worry that he has a bunch of sexually transmittable diseases. I’m sure the doctor is busy but this is an emergency—”
    “I’m sorry,” said the brisk voice on the phone, “but I think you meant to call Dr. Forester. His number is 555-8189 and ours is 555-8198. This is Simply Suits in the mall. You didn’t mean to call Simply Suits, did you?”
    My jaw dropped to the floor, which made it hard to talk, but if I could’ve talked I would’ve screamed, “Of course not, you idiot! Why would I call Simply Suits to tell them about my herpes?”
    As I was trying to decide whether I should just hang up (which would be extremely rude according to the way I was brought up), the girl said, “Oh my God, is this Jane Dough? That’s what Caller ID says. This is Tina Coffey. Remember me from high school? I’m managing this place now. I never thought I’d be a manager, but I just love clothes. So what are you doing now? Oh, never mind. Sorry about the herpes. That’s a bitch.”
    I managed to make it through two minutes of conversation with someone I couldn’t remember whatsoever while letting her think we had been best friends. Then I took a couple of deep breaths. I was an adult and I had an agenda, I told myself.
    The next call went much differently. “Dr. Forester’s office,” said the receptionist.
    “I’ve just moved here, so I’ve never been to Dr. Forester, but I have a rash on my … you know, and it’s really unbearable. I was wondering if there was any way Dr. Forester—of whom I’ve heard so many nice things—could fit me into his schedule.”
    The very helpful receptionist gave me an appointment for that afternoon, and I gave her my insurance information.
    Now I just had to get through the appointment.
    *****
    Dr. Forester’s office was fifteen miles away in a smallish, two-story, brown stucco medical building that had seen better days, and it had seen those better days fifty years ago from the looks of it. The tenants must have thought so too because a large sign at the entrance to the crumbling porte cochère announced their impending move to an ultra-modern medical plaza. I didn’t care how the place looked. In fact, the less distinguished the building, the less self-conscious I was sure to feel.
    I was wearing a lacy pink thong with matching bra, just in case the doctor was young and good looking. He probably wouldn’t be asking me out, considering my problem, but a young, good-looking doctor … enough said.
    The waiting room was packed with women who had never learned that it was rude to stare. Newcomers were collectively sized up and appraised from head to toe. I couldn’t get a fix on what they thought of me, and I didn’t care. My rash was driving me crazy, and the thong wasn’t helping.
    When I finally met Dr. Forester in the examining room, I realized I could have saved myself the discomfort. He reminded me of Clarence, the angel who gives Jimmy Stewart a hard time in the old black and white movie It’s A Wonderful Life. He was of average height and weight, with some extra padding in the midsection. He had thick, unruly white hair and big, bushy eyebrows.
    “So what seems to be the matter?” he asked kindly. I was too embarrassed to say.
    “I’ve got … something,” I mumbled. I didn’t know whether or not to tell him of my suspicion. I decided I shouldn’t predispose him to that diagnosis.
    “What?”
    “I don’t know what. That’s why I’m here.”
    “No, what did you say? You’ll have to speak up. I can’t hear as well as I used to,” he said, cupping his hand behind his ear.
    Perfect. This wasn’t a conversation I wanted to have at all, let alone at ear-shattering volume. “I have something, you know, down there,” I said louder.
    “Well, sure you do,” he shouted.