Whoever designed the haute couture "gowns" (and I use the term loosely) that you're destined to adorn during your doctor's visit should be tarred and feathered. Ladies, I know you get where I'm coming from on this one.
Every gown is different--some slip over your head, with giant slits up the side. Some are shaped like a coat, with sleeves, completely open in the front. The worst of them all? They tie at the neck and split down the front, leaving everything that you want to cover exposed. And a dainty little bow tied at your throat, mocking the loss of your dignity.
You sit on the table, paper crunching under your butt, legs crossed, tucking in the corners of your paper garment in a pathetically desperate attempt to retain a shred of privacy.
Then, you're supposed to act like a grown up in front of a complete stranger in a white coat, talking about the weather, or sports, or cheeseburgers, while they poke and prod in the places you least enjoy being poked and prodded. In your dainty paper gown, that has now lost all integrity as an item of clothing.
You'd think it would get easier as you get older. But no matter how many years go by, I find myself curled in the same pseudo-fetal position, feeling as awkward as one of those dreams where you find yourself running down the school hallway naked.