Normally I hate going to male doctors. I really loathe having my personal bubble poked and my fleshy self prodded by some condescending male medical elitist who presumes me to be a know-nothing idiot of a woman and treats me like the Luddite he assumes me to be.

But this morning, I felt differently. Today, while I basked in the masculine confines of the inner sanctum of Chad (can you believe it? An actual doctor named Chad?) Virile, MD, calmed by the Dr. Livingston, I Presume khaki walls and the Soothing Sage hemp-look area rug, I felt downright giddy. One look around this office, peppered with African masks, Easter Island fertility statues, aboriginal arrows and other such testosterone-laden things that men collect abroad, I knew I was nestled safely in the very capable hands of the hottest doctor in town.

At first I'd laughed when my internist handed me Dr. Virile's business card, suggesting I make an appointment with him.

“Dr. Virile?” I cackled. “Why don't you just send me to Dr. Studmuffin?”

“It's pronounced Virilli,” she'd corrected me at the time. “But just you wait. You'll be thanking me for sending you to him.”

Lordy, was she right. In my estimation, Dr. Virile was one of those men who justified the high cost of modern medicine. Heck, I'd pay top dollar for any invasive procedure, as long as Dr. Virile was manning the equipment, so to speak.

So this morning, I shamelessly gazed longingly into those earthen eyes of his, marveling at his bronzed complexion (was it true he just returned from a one-man sailing excursion in the South Pacific?), and yearned to weave my fingers through that sun-burnished flaxen hair which glowed like the Grand Canyon at dusk. As I fantasized about the good fortune with which I would have been blessed had I the pleasure of awakening alongside such a demi-god of a man, the promise of what-could-be simmered within me, a hot spring boiling over with potential, and all was right with my little world.

Now, mind you, I'm a happily married woman. I wouldn't dream of straying from my own beloved husband, not even for Dr. Virile, who, judging by his naked (ah, just to have the word naked alongside his name sends shivers up my spine) ring finger, is gainfully unattached. Nevertheless, I firmly believe that men like the good doctor have been put on the face of the earth to foster the verdant erotic fantasies of women everywhere, so who am I to fight against this implacable force of nature?

“Mrs. Fletcher,” Dr. Virile began.

“Please, call me Libby.” I glowed shamelessly at the man.

“Uh, yes, Libby,” he grunted, sounding like some sort of sexy prehistoric hunter/gatherer. Despite his sterile white coat with his name embroidered in cursive above his left breast pocket (oh, the words breast and Dr. Virile in such close proximity!), I closed my eyes and handily pictured him in a leopard-pelt loincloth. Dr. Virile, club in hand, two-day beard growth blanketing his manly countenance, his eyes reflecting the smoldering embers of the fire and of my passion. Just me and Chad Virile, cave-bound and drowning in animal lust.

I shake my head out of my fantasy as I heard Dr. Virile clear his throat and randomly rifle through my chart, his smoky eyes scanning the information before him. “I've got good news for you, Livvy. I got the test results back, and it looks like you have gallstones. A simple little procedure, and you'll be done with these things for good.”

I chose to ignore the fact that the man couldn't remember my name for ten seconds; I was far too busy dwelling on his positive attributes. Dr. Virile--I wanted so much to mouth his name aloud: Chad, Chad, Chad--proceeded to explain the surgery to me, assuring me in the manner in which only a lust-worthy young physician could do, that I would feel fine relatively quickly, that the procedure was practically as easy as having your wisdom teeth removed.

“Wow, that's great, Dr. Virile,” I said, licking my lips and trying to appear somewhat appealing to the man. Anything that would keep Dr. Virile on board my medical ship was fine by me.

This morning, in anticipation of my eight a.m. appointment (which had begun to feel a bit like a date, given the prep time I'd allotted), I'd arisen at six, shampooed not once but twice, using the expensive conditioner reserved for occasions of distinction (or severe chlorine damage), and devoted forty-five extra minutes to flat-ironing the kinks out of my auburn tresses. I've been told that straight hair makes me look younger--and thinner. How elongated hair shafts achieves that goal escapes me, however. Had I thought things through better, I would have scheduled an actual appointment with my hairdresser prior to seeing the good doctor, so as to look my best for the man.

As I sat before my Lady Clairol make-up mirror this morning, my complexion amplified ten-fold, I took stock of myself, trying to ignore the portents of age that were becoming impossible to deny. Never mind the wrinkles creeping onto my visage, a hint of a road map beginning to display itself along my eyes and mouth. Mere laugh lines, I told myself. That, I can deal with. But then there was that lone chin hair.

Amongst all of those dirty little secrets of middle-aged women--heavier periods, the return of acne, mood swings easily confused with symptoms of schizophrenia--the chin hair has to be one of the more insidious. Most every woman past the age of thirty-five works diligently to destroy the evidence of this telltale betrayal of age, and I'm no different. If only modern science could devote a few minutes to trying to eradicate that, we'd all be better off.

I next inspected my face for any other transgressions. Not bad, really, I thought. I still have those mysterious blue-gray eyes, the ones that Jason claimed attracted him to me way back when. And my smile, I'm told, can tame the most incorrigible of wild beasts. Perhaps that's why I keep getting selected to head the PTA. Or maybe it's simply because I'm foolish enough to agree to the task.

I delicately applied my make-up, wanting to appear as natural as possible for Dr. Virile. Before turning off the make-up mirror, I cocked my head ever so slightly and paused briefly, perhaps detecting the onset of a double-chin? Nah, couldn't be, I thought. That would suggest that I was actually gaining weight.

“So I'm going to refer you to Dr. Shipley, who will be your surgeon--” I suddenly realized my mind had wandered again, and my handsome gastroenterologist was talking to me and certainly he of all people deserved my undivided attention. I coyly batted my inky lashes toward him.

“Now, Lizzy, have I answered all of your questions?” He smiled at me, and for a fleeting moment, I really thought that smile meant something more. A hint of invitation, perhaps? A whiff of suggestion?

“Well, actually, Dr. Virile, I was wondering just one thing.” I paused. “How on earth could I have gotten gallstones?”

Dr. Virile, his gaze a fertile humus, lush with unspoken potential, bowed his head slightly while busying his hands leafing through my chart. “Well, Mrs. Fletcher--”

“--Libby,” I corrected him yet again. If he and I are to tread on the intimate footing of a doctor/patient relationship, at the very least we should be on a first-name basis.

“Yes, of course. Libby,” he corrected himself obligingly. “You see, you fit the profile to a T.”

Little did Dr. Virile know that this “profile” was about all I've successfully fit into in the past ten years.

“Profile?” I asked. “What do you mean?”

“In medical school, they teach us a little catch-phrase to help in diagnosing this disorder,” he began, clearing his throat before continuing. “It's known as the three F's.”

“The three F's?”

“Yes. Female, fat and forty-ish,” he chuckled.

You know sometimes you read in a story where the character's face falls? And you think, sure, right, her face fell? No way can a face really fall. But mine did just that. My face fell faster than an erection accosted by a bucket full of ice. Suddenly, I, who have not been without words since I first uttered “da-da” (my mother insisting then that I was trying to emulate her saying “dammit” rather than crediting my father with being more important in my parochial nine month-old world), was rendered speechless.

What does one say to the sexiest man within the tri-state area in whose gravitational tide I was inextricably pulled mere seconds earlier? How does one recoup from the degradation of having a man (whose most felicitous good looks border on near-Herculean proportions) who just unintentionally insulted me to the depths of my female, fat and forty-ish--oh, and maybe we can add another F: fucking--soul?

I felt a rush of molten heat sprint up my neck and dash across my face, the red of which undoubtedly enhanced that newly discovered double chin I'm apparently sporting. Thank God at least the chin hair wasn't there. I suspected that my face looked a bit like Yosemite Sam after unwittingly ingesting a combustible dose of chili peppers.

Poor Dr. Virile was probably ready to break the glass and retrieve the emergency fire extinguisher from its little walled enclosure next to the Amazonian tribal Candomble mask hand-hewn from exotic jacaranda wood.

The fleeting remainder of my office visit became blurred through my unseen tears of humiliating anguish. I don't know how I escaped the place without simply dissolving into a puddle of mortification right there on his Ralph Lauren sagebrush hemp-look rug. I vaguely recall attempting to paste a forced smile--the kind reserved for relatives whose politics you abhor--onto my chubby double-chinned face and slinking in shame from Dr. Virile's manly enclave.

All was no longer right with my little world. That geyser bubbling over with great potential had been rendered into a mud flat. Female, fat and forty-ish. Fuck.

I diverted myself to Baskin-Robbins on the way home. Gut-wrenching moments like those can only be assuaged by a two-scoop Pralines 'n Cream sundae with extra nuts.