Doctor's Wife

Once I grow up, I'm going to be a Doctor's wife. His name will be something like David Walker. It's a strong name, relatable name. His patients will know him as Dr. Walker. Of course, I will just call him David. My David will be stunningly handsome. He will have thick golden hair, which he will always be pushing off of his forehead with his masculine hands. His teeth will be stunningly white to match the brilliant area around his ocean blue irises. David will always wear khakis and polo shirts, neatly ironed. The sleeves will be short enough to display his tan, well-toned arms.

David and I will meet in college, where I will catch his eye from across the library. David will pretend that he needs help with his biology homework, and ask me if I could tutor him, even though it will be obvious that I am studying psychology. He will like the purple sweater I'm wearing, and the way my brunette curls fall along my petite shoulders. I will tell a joke about the stormy weather, saying that "when it rains, it pours," and he will fall in love with my tremendous wittiness. We will go on dates to the local pizza joint, where I will tell him about my communications class that day, and the paper I have to write on the newest popular movie picture. He will gripe about his biology professor and his Cornell medical school application.

Our wedding will be revered as the most magnificent reception the Northeast had ever seen. I will be stunning in an elegant Vera Wang dress paired with David’s Grandmother’s ivory pearls. David’s father will tell the crowd that I have made David not only a better man, but a better Doctor. I will blush and throw my wrist at the air as if I am denying the accuracy of his words.

Other women--especially the nurses at his hospital, who will make sure to wear their nicest perfumes to work, just for him--will be insanely jealous of me. They will look me up and down as I make my way to his office overlooking the city. Naturally, I will always be dressed to the nines. With David's six-figure salary, I will be able to afford any little luxuries I can imagine. I will prefer Diane Von Furstenberg's simple wrap dresses for errands around town, paired with Giuseppe Zanotti's python print boots. It will look great with my Mulburry "mitzy" tote and half-soy-half-skim-double-decaf-chai-latte.

All of my kitchen appliances will be stainless steel, and my counters will be granite. They will be littered with pharmaceutical pens and crumpled up to-do lists scribbled on prescription paper.

I will visit the hospital frequently, in-between visits to the spa and the gym. I’ll wait in my doctor’s office (at his strong mahogany desk) for him as he is finishing his second heart surgery of the day, and hear his name being called over the loudspeaker. "Paging Dr. Walker, paging Dr. Walker. Please call down to radiology." My heart will swell with pride when I hear this. That is MY Doctor. My honey caramel highlights glistening in the sunlight, I will sit at David's desk, thinking about where we should have dinner that evening. Of course, I’ll be in the mood for sushi, and will promptly call our favorite sushi restaurant to reserve the finest table in the establishment. "What is the last name," the hostess will ask. "Walker," I will smugly beam. "And the first name," she will absently ask. "Just put it under Dr.," I will say.