“There’s nothing to be worried about. Why don’t you lie down on the couch and tell me why you came to see me.”

“Well, I’ve had this weight problem all my life. You know, fast foods and all? I just can’t resist it every time the guy at the drive-through asks, ‘Do you want fries with that?’ Damn those French.”

“Please continue.”

“So I started going to this gym where I work out on the treadmill everyday for about, oh, maybe 60 to 90 minutes. While I’m on the treadmill I’m looking straight into this mirror that totally covers the wall in front of me. In other words, I can see everyone in the gym. And that’s when the problem started. “

“Fear of mirrors? In psychiatry we call that mirrorphobia. Quite common.”

“That’s not it, Doctor. I’ve always loved mirrors. You see, I’m jogging on this treadmill, looking into the wall-size mirror in front of me, and I notice that there’s a line of Stairmasters behind me. You know, those machines that simulate climbing the stairs?”

“Oh, so that’s your problem. You’re suffering from a fear of stairs. In psychiatry we call that ‘Stairaphobia.'”

“No, no, Doctor. Nothing like that. I’m on the treadmill, looking into this mirror where I see a long line of Stairmasters behind me, and on each Stairmaster is a beautiful woman. And all those women are moving up and down on the Stairmasters, their bountiful bosoms bouncing up and down with each step.”

“Oh, you suffer from a fear of bosoms. In psychiatry-“

“No, Doctor you don’t understand. You see, instead of seeing all those well-endowed feminine attributes heaving to and fro on the Stairmasters, I see… I see…”

“Yes? Go on. You can tell me.”

“I see tour dates.”

“Huh??”

“It’s incredible, Doctor. Dates for Jackson Browne, Mark Knopfler and Rocket From The Crypt bouncing up and down. And I can’t take my eyes off of them.”

“Hmmm…”

“Like this blond that was directly behind me. She was wearing one of those tight Spandex outfits that show off every curve of her body. But all I saw were the dates for Jaguares and Frank Black & The Catholics moving up and down. Or the redhead right next to her. She’s a real babe, but all I saw when I looked at her were the latest routings for The Divine Comedy and Karl Denson’s Tiny Universe vibrating with every step she took.”

“Hmmm…”

“I’m telling you, Doctor, it’s driving me insane. Every time I sneak a look a one of those hot young ladies working out on the Stairmasters, all I see are tour dates. The Rolling Stones, Shakira and Beck. I can’t take it anymore, Doctor. I’m a man. I want to look at bosoms, not tour dates.”

“Now, now. That’s nothing to be worried about. You’re getting older. You’re not a young man, anymore. It’s quite natural for you to see tour dates, like Chris Robinson or Peter Wolf, instead of heaving bosoms. As a man grows older he thinks less of breasts and more of concerts. This eventually happens to every man.

“”But what else is there to live for? What will I do with my life?”

“It’s okay. It’s a sign of age. That’s all. You’ll get used to it. You don’t have a problem.”

“But… But…”

“But, what?”

“But, Doctor. I’m Bill Clinton.”

“Oh. Then I guess you do have a problem.”