I can’t even start this post without smiling, because the experience was so odd and enjoyable, the mere thought of it brings a big broad toothy grin to my face. My cat is even looking at me odd as I giggle alone, thoroughly enjoying the moment.

I’ll let you in on my little secret, I love doctors!

I didn’t use to love doctors. They scared the living crap out of me for years, as they knew me by my provider number, rather than my first name. I’ve experienced more than one occasion when a doctor has hovered over me - complete with powdery, plastic gloves - totally oblivious as to who I am. “Okay….Mssss….umm…Opaz, you can stand up and get dressed now.”

“Yeah, thanks buddy. Last I checked, my parents were sweet enough to provide me with a first name that you’re welcome to use.”

Three years and counting since we’ve squatted on Spanish soil, and I haven’t found myself rushing out to get a physical. I figure that if my limbs aren’t falling off, and I’m not foaming at the mouth, I’m doing pretty well. But having turned 32 last November, I thought it wise to have a little check-see to ensure that all those internal liquids are still working up to speed.

So I made an appointment two months ago to get a physical. Called ‘una analytica’, NOT ‘una fisica’ -a mistake I’ve made on more than one occasion, I was finally able to see my doctor two weeks later.

“So what can I do for you” she says to me.

“I’d like a physical”, I respond while rolling up my sleeves assuming that my blood pressure would be the first act of the afternoon.

“Okay, well, take this piece of paper up to the receptionist and …