I follow McCutie through the double doors, his thumb tapping the clipboard.

"Did I say your name right?" he asks.

"Almost. Close enough." I look up at him and smile. "Surely somewhere in the world they pronounce my name that way, so technically—somewhere—you got it exactly right." McCutie grins bashfully—a pinkish glow spreading across his stubble-free face.

I wish back in my teens and twenties I was confident around McCuties like I am now. The college years would've been vastly different if I had flirted with boys—or almost-men—or whatever they are at that age. Unfortunately, I was extremely cautious when it came to matters of the heart. I took life—especially the romance part—far too seriously. It was like I believed love was a weapon of mass destruction that needed to be handled with extreme caution and care. In fact, I was so cautious when it came to handling love, I hardly ever touched it at all.

Jump ahead several years later—after a few nuclear disasters of the heart—and here I am. I'm a woman who wishes she could tell her young adult self to lighten up. I'd say, "I know you're convinced being smart and careful will prevent pain from entering your life. Well—it won't. In fact, sheltering yourself from the possibility of pain—or trying to control what can't be controlled—will only create a more excruciating torture called regret—AKA a life unlived."

I'd go on and convince my younger self to not be shy or afraid around McCuties. They're harmless. Easy to talk to. Flattered by the simple efforts of striking up a genuine conversation with them. Not to mention, just as insecure about themselves. I'd also encourage my fragile adolescent ego to look beyond fears of anticipated rejection and go after the things I want, McCuties or otherwise. "Rejection is going to happen whether you like it or not, young padawan—so don't rob yourself of amazing possibilities by dodging potential rejections."

McCutie and I walk down a hallway seeming to stretch on for—okay, I won't lie—it was maybe only several hundred feet, but I didn't have my walking shoes on. In any case, as we're walking down a long hall I casually ask the adorable assistant, "So where is the pool and spa located?"

"Pardon?" he responds.

"This is La Urgent Care?" I question in an accent no foreign country would ever claim. "You are checking me into my luxury accommodations, I presume?"

McCutie redirects his eyes towards the floor and man-giggles. I love making members of the male species man-giggle. It's sort of this new hobby I have. Making younger men man-giggle is my PG version of being a cougar. Don't get me wrong, I do admire PG-13+ cougars (assuming their prey is of legal age). I just can't do it. I can't get over the damn pedophile'ish feelings that come with dating a much younger male. I know myself too well. Eventually I'd get exhausted being the glorified and unpaid babysitter. So instead, I partake in the far less invasive sport of man-giggling.

"Yes!" McCutie looks at me and smiles, then turns away when he can't hold back a laugh. Pointing towards a hallway shooting off the one we're currently on he says, "The pool and spa are just down there."

The game face I wear when I start playing the sportof man-giggling is like:

"Excellent. And I hope you have those really fluffy white bathrobes with La Urgent Care embroidered in gold thread." I turn to make eye contact. "I just can't stand those disgusting laundry bags with open backs those other establishments try to pass off as robes. If I wanted to flash people wearing a piece of fabric with a 1970's print on it, I'd—."

McCutie stares at me—hanging on my every word—waiting for me to drop the humorous punchline.

"I'd—I'd—." Crap! My comedic suaveness doesn't seem to be getting good reception in here. Must. Redirect. "Well, damn it! I know there must've been a super funny Woodstock joke in there somewhere." I pause for dramatic effect—glancing up at McCutie with a crooked grin. "But clearly I'm too young to know anything about Woodstock."

My invisible cougar tail is out—meticulously swaying from side to side as I playfully interact with my McCutie Mouse.

He opens the door to an examination room, standing to the side to let me enter first. Such a gentleman. I glance around at the drab décor, then point to the pillow on a table-bed draped in fabric. "What? No chocolates on the pillow?"

Awe. There it is. The sweet sounds of man-giggling.

"I'll see if I can fix that." He hesitates for a moment as though he's actually trying to come up with a solution for my fake problem. "There might be something in the vending machine."

"That would be amazing. Thank you."

McCutie's smile fades. He has a look as though he can't quite tell if I'm being serious or still playing. Despite actually craving a few pieces of chocolate, I wave him off with my own giggle. "I'm just kidding. You've been a very good sport."

He nods—a smile lighting up his McCutie face again. "Someone will be here shortly."

I nod back. "Thank you." Then the McCutie Asssitant slowly closes the door.

Throwing my purse on a chair, I give myself a really good all-body scratch, then jump up on the examination table and stare at a picture of Queen Elizabeth on the wall. Her image is on a sign reminding patients that even though they've officially been checked in—and staff likely knows who they are—staff will still ask questions (such as your name) for safety purposes. That would be hilarious, I chuckle to myself. The Queen sitting on this table-bed wearing an ugly, cloth garbage sack with her royal ass hanging out.

There is a gentle knock at the door as it slowly creeps open. A woman's voice asks, "Is it alright if I come in?"

"Yes! Come in."

A woman about my age enters the room. In fact, she's a woman about my age, height, weight, shape—and what I like to think—rocking my bubbly personality. "And what do we have going on this evening?" she asks.

At first I'm a little annoyed. You'd think in today's day and age with all the technology and shit, I wouldn't have to describe my damn skin and breathing issue 37 times! Okay—so it's only the 4th time—but still. I look up at Queen Elizabeth on the wall and sigh in defeat. I share with Ms. Bubbles nearly the exact same story I've shared with the last three nurses and whatnots. I end my detailed description by lowering my jeans and giving the nurse's assistant a sneak peak at my hip infested with hives.

"Oh my goodness," Ms. Bubbles gasps. "You weren't lying. That does look terrible."

"Like Shakira says—the hips don't lie." 

"And is it just on the hips and butt?"

"Oh no! It gets better."

"How much better?"

"It's on my armpits. Under my boobs. Behind my knees. Between the legs. It's even in my butt crack."

"In your butt crack?"

"Yep," I confirm. "Even in the deep depths of my butt crack."

Ms. Bubbles throws both her hands up in the air and yells, "TOUCHDOWN!"

"Oh you have no idea." I laugh—partially because Ms. Bubble's is so funny and partially because I'm so exhausted from this whole ordeal I'm about to cry. "There has been far too much touching down there lately."

"It looks like this is going to require one of our stylish gowns."

I smirk. "Clearly we have the same taste in fashion."

Ms. Bubbles quickly slips out of the room and returns with a grayish-blue and brown hospital gown. "See? I told you they were stylish."

"Oh!" I exclaim. "That's hot. I'm pretty sure I saw that gown on the cover of Vogue."

The nurse's assistant laughs and hands me the folded material. "Put this on. The couture gown opens in the back. Apparently it's the in thing this season. You can keep your underwear on so you're not completely naked."

I look up at her through my eyelashes. "I know!" she exclaims. "It's not much, but it's something." Then like a true hospitable hostess of a luxurious establishment she adds, "Can I get you anything else? A cup of water?"

"No. The lovely gown is more than enough."

"Alrighty then. The nurse should be in to see you soon."

"Thank you."

"You're so welcome." Ms. Bubbles smiles as she backs out of the room, closing the door to give me some privacy. When I hear the door click, I strip like there's a bee caught in my shirt—throwing my clothes in a messy pile on the floor. I don't know why I always do that. It's not like someone is going to come rushing in five seconds after the door is shut. But I do. I'm just so embarrassed of the current state my body is in, I don't want anyone to see me fully naked—especially when I know I could be doing so much better when it comes to my health.

So here I am. I'm sitting on the table-bed cross legged in a potato sack—buck naked except for a pair of well-worn granny panties. My muffin top is so amazing it doesn't even need a pair of pants to muffin top over. In fact, my mid-section sort of looks like soft serve ice cream—a couple rolls of creamy goodness rising out of a giant butt bowl.

"Let's just get this over with," I whisper, scratching my armpits like I'm imitating a monkey. "Let's make this nightmare end."

*****McSEXY BREAK*****

Man-Giggling is so fun! It should really be an Olympic sport. 

MUSIC: Queen's Fat Bottomed Girls (performed by the Glee cast). A confident and fun personality is hot, hot, hot! So why do I constantly crumble due to insecurity and embarrassment over my physical appearance? Life is a classroom. Learning never ends.

Your vote is truly McAppreciated! Muah!

MarilynHepburn.com