If you’ve read Saving Grace Part-1, you’d know that two of my best friends have been encouraging me to have a little work done, which is how I came to be nervously sitting in Dr. M’s Zen like reception room along with 300 orchids I competed with for oxygen.
“It’s cheerful, don’t you think,” asked Camille when I started to gasp.
“Oh yes, that’s exactly what I was thinking,” I said, looking longingly toward the exit.
“Relax,” said Camille, “you will absolutely adore him.”
Yeah, yeah, I thought to myself. I had visions of a little man with one too many veneers crisscrossing my face with a number two pencil. As I idly wondered if any woman ever committed suicide after a consultation, the door swung open and instead of a nurse there stood Dr. M who, in his 30s, looking more like a rock star than a surgeon.
“Won’t you come in,” he asked, after kissing Camille like a long lost groupie.
“I’ll be right here when you come out,” she said, giving my arm a little squeeze. “Have fun.” Fun? It felt as though I was going to the chair with an overly cute executioner. I had a huge urge to pop into the ladies room to apply emergency gloss but Camille had instructed, no make-up. “He needs to see the real you,” she said, “so he can properly assess the damage.” She made me sound like a crime scene. He led me into an office that was filled with American history books. Why were there so many on FDR – could Eleanor have been a patient? Let’s see, that would make him around 95 years old. Well, that’s surgery for you.
“I see you’re perusing my book shelves,” Dr. M said while running slender fingers through his wavy blonde hair.
“You caught me,” I said, naked from the lips up.
“I love history,” he said, “one could say it floats my boat.” Hmm, I thought, I use that expression myself. Speaking of boats, as we proceeded to discuss The New Deal at length, I suddenly started having surprise sexual stirrings beneath my Polo seersucker sailor skirt. Camille was right, this guy is good. I feel fiendishly 55 again. When he suggested we move to the examination room, I was afraid I’d leave a moist mark on the seat of my chair.
“I hope you don’t mind, but my nurse is at lunch.”
“Oh, I don’t mind,” I said, my voice dropping like Bea Arthur’s.
“You know Susannah,” he said, after helping me onto the table, “you do look exceptionally phenomenal for your age.” My thighs and I began to blush.
“I would think that a man in your profession would know that a woman hates to hear that she looks good for her age,” I said, secretly not minding hearing it from him.
“Well, I try to tell the truth and it’s not often I’m able to say that.” I knew if I wasn’t careful I was going to slide right off the table.
“I have to admit,” I said, surprising myself, “you’re not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“Hmm, less hair, older, not to mention looser pants and so far you haven’t turned my face into a map of Idaho. I’d like to thank you for that.”
“You’re very funny,” he said, “I like a woman with a sense of humor.”
“You don’t say.”
“And by the way, you’re not what I expected either.” (Jesus, what did Camille tell him).
“I feel though Susannah that I should warn you, I never date my patients. It’s a rule of mine…(not only is he sexy, he’s ethical too…dammit)
“but what if I could convince you it was still too early to start tiding up, as our friend Camille likes to say?”
“But what about my bags?”
“We can check them,” he said grinning.
“I can see you have a sense of humor too.”
“Tell me, seriously, how much do they really bother you?”
“To be honest, they bother my friends more than they do me. I didn’t even know I had them till 8 o’clock last night. I just thought I was looking a little pooped.”
“You know what you need?”
“A nice, long, quiet dinner with me – how about tonight?” Wow, if I had known consultation was like this I would have been consulting long ago.
“I am quite a bit older than you,” I said, feeling the need to confess. “Doesn’t that concern you just a little?”
“Not in the least…I love older women – I find you all so fascinating.” (omigod..was he dropped on his head?)
“You don’t say.” A few minutes later I floated back into reception.
“I was all set to order lunch,” said Camille, looking at her watch, “what the hell were you doing in there all that time?”
“Discussing The New Deal.”
“What, he gave you a deal? So I guess that means you have an appointment.”
“Oh, I have an appointment alright,” I said, deciding I loved orchids. “He’s picking me up at 8.”
I wish you could have seen the look on Camille’s face…and this time Botox had nothing to do with it.