OK...so this blogging thing is harder than it looks. I have lots of things to say, but getting them on this blog is a whole different story. However, today was the dreaded yearly doctor's visit.
Men - turn back NOW.
So I go for my yearly visit and, of course, have to go through the preliminary crapola before I even get to the paper clothes. Stand on the scales (I try not to look directly at the number....I hear it will burn your retinas if you do). How tall are you? Well, clearly, I'm 8'8"....otherwise, the number I'm avoiding would indicate I'm a fatty. Here, give me some blood (I am a complete and total wimp about blood). Now, go pee in the cup. Ummm...excuse me, this is a FEMALE yearly visit. I need more like a basin, please. And then....the clothes.....
So they take me in the mint sherbet colored room and hand me the dreaded paper clothes. And leave me.
Back in the day I was actually skinny enough to wrap the paper "skirt" completely around myself and tried a side opening, the look on the doctor's face when I assumed the position and that bad boy flew open was classic. It was actually a semi-enjoyable visit that year. For those of you skinny enough, I encourage this behavior at your next visit.
After the somewhat gentle reminder from my doc that year, I try to wear the paper clothes appropriately. So I'm sitting with my paper vest and my paper skirt....really more of an apron for a girl my size...waiting.
Of course, as soon as I get this lovely outfit on...I have to pee, again. I weigh the benefits of putting my clothes back on....nah. I wonder if I could make a break for the restroom in my vest and apron...surely someone has done it, but nah. So I just hold it. As I age, this could be a big surprise for the doctor. But for now, I'm ok. For now.
The doctor is never prompt. Never.
Even though it's the approximate temperature of the North Pole, I start sweating. Nervous about the pee, I guess. I also get nervous about the very real possibility of the fire sprinkler system activating while I have the paper clothes on. (It's a real possibility in MY mind.) Then I think geez...these paper clothes won't hide a sweat ring so well...so then I sweat more.
Then I start to fidget. Pulling the apron....trying to cover more. Needless to say - the apron isn't growing and my ass isn't shrinking so this is an exercise in futility. I fidget with the vest, too. I'm not sure why. The apron/skirt is made for a size 00 while the vest is clearly planning for Dolly Parton sized inhabitants. I hear the paper ripping and yet I still fidget. Can't. Stop. Fidgeting.
So by the time my doctor finally arrives (usually about the time I've nearly created an origami animal from the "clothes" and am 99% uncovered) I look like I've been attacked by a wild animal. My paper apron hangs in shreds and my vest is going for the one shoulder look.
This is all before the actual exam.
Next up for the female demographic - the boob smash....pretty sure I walk out of that place with a cracked sternum every year.