For those of you who have been keeping up with my Mortified blog subcategory, you undoubtedly remember my post from last March where I confessed my mortification after having my primary care physician appear as one of my 8 daily Match.com date choices.
As you remember, before I recognized his picture, I made flirty flirty email conversation with him about how cute he is and possibility what my interests might be in the bedroom with him…the whole 9 yards. It was devastating. Or at least I thought. Because, like with most things in my life, there was another shoe to drop…
I’ve been feeling really tired lately, and the this past week I had a bunch of labs done — finding that I have the testosterone level of a 12-year-old girl.
On the one hand, I’m beyond excited that the poor health feelings I’ve been dealing with could have a cure as simple as a shot every other week, but I had to have “the talk” with my doctor. You know…the talk where you go over the “possible symptoms of low testosterone” checklist…the checklist that has, among other things, “how are you functioning in the bedroom?” — only not in such flowery terms. The checklist uses terms like erection, stiffness, stamina, girth. The one that includes a PHYSICAL EXAM.
Shoot. Me. In. The. Head.
Basically, I got to sit naked for 45 minutes and detail to the most gorgeous doctor in the universe that I am slowly melting into a pile of osteoporosis remnants and a soup of vaginal fluid.
G-d help me.