Last time I checked, I didn’t have a penis, a pair of testicles, or the innate need to constantly scratch and adjust said penis or testicles. So, as long as that’s clear, we can all rest assured that I am very much NOT a man.
Please excuse the seemingly unnecessary and rather brash declaration of my sex. It’s not usually something I have to announce outright as I tend to do things that make it fairly obvious that I am quite rightly in possession of a pair of X chromosomes. Things like: swoon, wear corsets, shield my delicate skin from the sun with a parasol, stay indoors during times of menstruation (so as not to offend the menfolk), and demurely play with the ringlet that always falls into my right eye. So I suppose I should cut Mr. Representative from The Particular Professional Risk Management Company who sent me a letter recently some slack. Since he hasn’t actually ever seen me. You know, he probably just tapped into some database of MD’s and assumed that I couldn’t possibly be a girl. A girl doctor! Heavens no! Must be some sort of typo…I’ll just go ahead and fix that. This must be what Mr. Representative from the aforementioned Particular Professional Risk Management Company was thinking when he addressed the envelope and the letter within to me.
This explains how I was the recipient of a letter addressed to a Dr. Richard [MyLastName]. Mr. Representative is trying to sell me professional liability insurance coverage specifically for health care professionals complete with “top notch legal counsel and toll-free risk management consultation.” Hmm. Sounds pretty good. But I fear I won’t be eligible once he finds out I’m: [whispered] a girl.
Here’s the best part. Wanna know what Mr. Representative’s first name is? Richard.
I’m thinking Mr. Dick Representative will shortly be in receipt of a letter from a Dr. Richard [MyLastName] in which I’ve peed on the stationary.*
While standing up, of course.
* Don’t be silly. If Scarlett O’Hara wouldn’t do it, I wouldn’t do it.