As I spoke with a young woman sitting on a gurney in the ER, she asked, “Can I have your opinion on something?”

“Sure. What is it?” I responded.

She pushed the gown off her shoulders and it cascaded to her waist. “It's my breasts. What do you think of them?”

“Are you having any problem with them?” I asked.

“I'm not, but my boyfriend is. He doesn't like them. He wants me to have them enlarged. So what do you think?”

“I think they're fine.”

“That sounds like something my mother would say! Come on now, I want your honest opinion.”

“I gave it to you.”

“Fine? Fine? What does fine mean?”

“Let me be frank. From what you've told me, your boyfriend obviously likes large breasts. You can change your breasts, or get a new boyfriend. If you want some advice from me, I would not change your breasts just to suit your boyfriend.”

“Because they're fine, right?” she said, pronouncing fine with obvious disdain.

“Yes, they are fine.”

“I wish you'd stop using that word! When I was a teenager, I had acne and braces, but my parents always told me I looked fine. If I really looked fine my boyfriend wouldn't always be gawking at those babes with large breasts.”

“Well, every man has his own conception of ideal beauty.”

“So what is yours? If you think B-cups are fine, you're obviously not a boob man.”

“I think shape is more important than size.”

“How's my shape, then?”

I was almost ready to say fine, but I caught myself in time. With only a slight hesitation, I answered, “They're nice.”

“Did they give you doctors some kind of a course in how to beat around the bush or something? Nice? Nice? Could you try for a word that's a little more nondescript?”

I realized that there was no backing out of this one. I could have referred her to a plastic surgeon for his professional opinion, but that wasn't the answer. Furthermore, she would undoubtedly interpret the referral as an unequivocal sign that her breasts were somehow inferior. I could say that her breasts were gorgeous, but she would not believe me. It seemed to me that the only description she would accept is that her breasts weren't fine. That was not the truth, so I had to handle this another way. “Your breasts are attractive, but they are obviously not your best feature.”

“So what is?”

“You have fantastic legs.”

“You like them? You're not just saying that to make me feel better, are you?”

“Of course not. I'm trying to be as honest as possible.”

“I bet you don't get asked this question very often.”

“You would be surprised how often I'm asked similar questions. I've only had one other woman ask me about her breasts, but at least a few women every month ask me if they are too fat or if their butt is too big. That's not the worst question, though.”

“What is the worst?”

“When people ask me if they have bad breath.”

It's true. A few people with abysmal etiquette suddenly put their faces a couple of inches from mine, and then exhaled with no advance warning. I've also had people cough or sneeze in my face, without the slightest attempt to turn away or to cover their mouth/nose. When I confronted one of the patients about this (a middle-aged man, who should have known better), he seemed exasperated and exclaimed in a snotty tone of voice, “Why should you care? You're a doctor!”

I replied, “Why does that matter? Do you think that doctors like getting sick? I'm here to treat your disease, not contract it!”

He glared at me, silently. What a jerk, I thought.

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