What part of my routine do I always try to skip?

That annual doctor’s visit.

Every single time.

It’s not about fearing bad news — it’s about that paper gown moment.

You know the one.

I’m perched on that examination table. I feel the crinkle of thin paper with every breath. I try to maintain some semblance of dignity. My feet dangle like I’m a kid again.

Last time, I spent fifteen minutes wrestling with the gown.

I debated whether it opened in the front or back (got it wrong, naturally).

Meanwhile, my clothes sat neatly folded on the chair.

They somehow looked more smug than clothes have any right to be.

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. My phone sat just out of reach. I contemplated how many adults actually Google “how to wear paper gown” each year.

It’s not even about the appointment itself.

It’s about that suspended moment of enforced vulnerability.

In this moment, my carefully constructed adult persona gets stripped away along with my clothes.

It is replaced by what is essentially glorified tissue paper.

P.S. They could at least make these gowns in better colors. Is beige really the best we can do for our collective dignity?