At some point, a while back, I sought the services of a handsome head doctor to cure my batshit-crazy mind.

(Okay, fine, I have sought the services of twelve to fifteen head doctors. Leave me alone. It’s not relevant to this story.)

The handsome head doctor probed deeply, listened carefully, and ultimately diagnosed me as a hopeless romantic with very little investment in reality.

“I don’t understand what you’re saying,” I told him.

“You are never going to find satisfaction in the mundane,” he said, with what I could have sworn was suddenly an Austrian accent. “I recommend a diet of constant upheaval and, for the time being, am going to strictly confine you to one-night stands.”

Despite having a crush on the handsome head doctor, or perhaps because of it, I spat in his face and saw myself out.

(Okay, fine, his gorilla henchman escorted me out. Same difference. One way or another, we parted ways.)

At the time, I was insulted by what I thought the doctor was implying, although anymore I can’t bring myself to remember or even care what that was.

In fact, I completely forgot the entire thing until today, when I heard the doctor’s voice from the open window of my car. That’s right. He and his Lexus were in front of me at the drive-thru cafe. He was ordering a decaf americano. Figures, right? Decaf. Sheesh.

Anyway, that’s when these memories got stirred up, and I found myself kind of pissed off all over again.

Nonetheless, when the cute barista passed the doctor his steaming hot coffee, I fiercely resisted the urge to rear-end his car. And I did that all on my own. Without any help from the mental health industry.

(Okay, fine, I took my prescription drugs today. But that’s really more the pharmaceutical industry, thank you very much.)

By being the bigger person, and then flirting with the cute barista, I think I was really able to finally make my peace with the doctor.

And it is from this newfound place of neutrality that I will allow myself to stand corrected on one point.

In truth, the handsome head doctor was not nearly that handsome.

It seems that, while under his care, I was merely suffering from a condition that is very common among batshit-crazy women, wherein a medical guy who might be able to help you passes for way hotter than he actually is.

I have looked all over the internet and, while there are countless testimonials related to this ailment, there is apparently no name for it.

But this just proves my point. Were my doctor any good at all, he would have properly diagnosed my condition and taken the opportunity to actively treat me.

His loss.