I have DOPS!

Recently, I had occasion to visit Dr. Mike.

And it was in his office that I learned I suffer from DOPS.

I like to visit my doctor. After all, it's one of the few places I can go and blather on about myself, and nothing but myself, without the listener suddenly remembering that they had an urgent engagement to wash their hair, take their dog for a walk or scrape a cheese grater over their forehead.

A physician is contractually obligated to listen. It's in the job description.

"Look Mike, I've got this weird bump on my leg!"

"That's your knee, Bob."

"No, I mean this weird bump on top of my knee."

"And that would be your knee cap"

"Is it supposed to be that big?"

"Bob, you wouldn't happen to have a cheese grater with you, would you?"

But on my last visit, Dr. Mike was not alone. With him was a student doctor.

She was beautiful.

I suppose I should now produce some great apologia for being a superficial, sexist creep, that I should know a person is defined, not by how they look, but by who they are, etc. etc. etc.

But honest, she was really, really cute.

And best of all, she was contractually obligated to listen to me.

So when Dr. Mike suggested she and I discuss some recent medical tests I had undergone, and that these tests were of a very intimate and important nature, I realized we would likely form a close personal bond and . . .

I love my wife. She is more important to me than breath. We've built a family and a home together and my commitment to her is as strong and firmly rooted as the Precambrian Shield.

But frankly, as soon as this lovely young women sat down to talk to me, I couldn't remember my wife's name. The reason, as my wife has had previous opportunity to note, is that men are pigs.

After Dr. Mike left the examining room, the student doctor and I talked about the test results, which to my dismay, all proved to be normal. I was hoping that some aberration might pique her interest, cause her to study my case in depth, put me at the centre of her medical thesis and . . .

I think I said before that I am still deeply in love with what's-her-name, right?

Anyway, this angel of healing concluded her analysis by suggesting that she take my blood pressure. This would mean, of course, that she would actually have to touch me, that her delicate hand would probably brush against my skin, that . . .

Our 17th wedding anniversary is quickly approaching. Frankly, I don't know why what-cha-ma-call-it has stayed with me so long.

The doctor slipped a blood pressure cup over my arm and pumped the little rubber air bladder, listening intently to her stethoscope.

"Just relax," she said. "Relax your arm, just hold on to me."

"Hmm," she said. "155 is a bit high."

"What! 155?" I chortled, suddenly losing all thoughts of a carnal nature. "Jeese, maybe we better call an ambulance or something. Any oxygen masks around?"

She rechecked using the other arm.

Sure enough, 155.

While she left to discuss the situation with Dr. Mike, I quickly considered possible changes to my will - perhaps the creation of a bursary for medical students.

Dr. Mike returned. This time he took my blood pressure It was back to normal. He did it again. And again it was normal. The answer was clear.

I suffer from DOPS.

The medical community would be well-advised to study DOPS, also known as the Dirty Old Pervert Syndrome. It has probably led to more mis-diagnosis than liquor or government health cuts.

I've already taken my own action.

As an anniversary gift, I'm getting my wife a lovely name tag.