I went to the doctor, as in a real family-practitioner-write-you-a-prescription-type doctor this week for the first time in 6 years.

I know, I know. I need to go a little more often than every one-sixth of my age, but hey, I’m weird about the whole process. There are some things I like, as in caffeine in a stark-white cup that costs me waaaaay too much, and some things I don’t, like being weighed by total strangers and co-pays and old magazines in waiting rooms.

But, I did it. After all, I’m not getting any younger. And after noticing some symptoms that I’d hoped would just go away and didn’t, I found myself sitting in a waiting room, filling out 6 pages of patient info asking me when my last hangnail occured.

I’m happy to report that it wasn’t all that bad. I even made some observations during my visit. Have you ever noticed:

You’re just beginning to enjoy that magazine article in the waiting room when you’re called back?

You rush to undress and put on that ungodly hospital gown as if it’s a race, just so the doctor won’t surprise you with your pants down?

For a brief moment, you want your mommy when you’re told they will be drawing blood, only to realize you’re an adult?

You panic while in the restroom, worried that someone will open that little wooden window intended for urine samples? Can’t even imagine that conversation. ‘Hey, what’s going on? This soap smells gooooood.’

As much as you hate putting on that gown, you’re more than happy to shed your coat, shoes, and nearly ALL layers of clothing for that dreaded weigh-in? Hey, a pound is a pound, and stepping on the scales in your birthday suit suddenly seems reasonable.

And that’s all.