The Good Doctor

Due to post-divorce changes in insurance I found myself needing a new eye doctor. I ended up with a referral from my family practitioner to one of the ophthalmology clinics in town. Hands down, the very best referral I've ever been given. Note to self: send thank-you gift to Dr. S.

I arrived for my appointment needing a new prescription for my glasses and contacts and with a few questionable neurological symptoms that my family practice doctor thought best evaluated by a professional of the ocular sort. With nothing but the name of the doctor and an appointment time I had no idea what to expect. The optician was very friendly and nice, finishing her part of my visit quickly and leaving me with gigantically dilated pupils and streaks of angry, yellow eye drops running down my cheeks. Between the yellow tears and my incessantly watering eye relieving me of my mascara and eyeliner at a record pace, I'm pretty sure I looked ten shades of beautiful.

And in comes Dr. Gorgeous. Dr. Holy-Buckets-I-Wish-I-Would-Have-Showered-For-This-Visit. Dr. You're-So-Hot-I-Forgot-Why-I'm-Here. Dr. Thank-God-You're-An-Eye-Doctor-And-Not-My-Gynecologist. And he smelled good. Sooooo good. Like a warm spring morning, a crisp fall evening and a steamy summer night all rolled up in one dark haired, blue-eyed, muscular package.

His exam was thorough and painless. Ok, yeah, the eye doctor is rarely painful but just let me have my moment here, ok? He recommends some further testing but says he won't be able to read the results for a few weeks as he'll be out of the country. Must be nice to head out on vacation in April, right?

I went out to the reception desk to schedule my next appointment, a little skip in my step knowing that I would see him again soon. He finds me before I leave the office and hands me a pair of Seriously Glamorous plastic inserts for my sunglasses, you know, to counteract the dilating eye drops. There is no way to convincingly suggest that I won't be needing them; between the tears and eye drops I look like a domestic abuse PSA. Still, I insist that I'm fine and my eyes feel great. Never mind the fact that I literally can't even keep them open due to the bright sun shining in through the excessive number of windows.

Hoping for a subtle attempt at further conversation I say "Have a great vacation!"

Stoic, Handsome Doctor: " It's not actually a vacation; I'm going to Honduras. For a humanitarian mission with the National Guard; sort of like Doctors Without Borders."

Me: "Oh, wow. What will you be doing there?" Really, Leah? Really?

He lifts an eyebrow and slowly says "Um, I'll be doing eye exams. And minor eye surgery. For women and children without access to health care."

Of course you are. Of course. Because you don't have enough going for you, you must also be a Soldier. A fricking Soldier. A humanitarian-mission-taking, child-sight-saving, well-dressed, gorgeous, great-smelling Dr. Soldier. Advanced degree: check. Dedication to his patients (worldwide, no less): check. Sense of civic duty: check. Uniform, Uniform, Uniform: checkity check check check.

That about wraps it up, ladies. Quite possibly the most highly specialized brand of Man Candy ever created. And I have an appointment with him in just a few weeks. My dry eyes are simply torturous and I have no doubt he'll be quite concerned.