A handful of times over the past few years I’ve had to drag my aging body in to be inspected by various medical professionals for the evaluation and treatment of various minor medical issues. Garden variety pre-elderly type issues that tend to crop up when something was used to much when it was new. So it begins. So it goes.

Though each of the issues varied, one thought came to mind each and every time I encountered one of the various medical professionals, “How old are you?” It seemed as though all of my appointments over the past few years happened to fall on “Bring Your Kid to Work Day”, but the parents were nowhere to be found.

Don’t get me wrong, kids have been doing a wonderful job running movie theaters and bussing tables for years, but hospitals? “Sonny, I have complete faith in your ability to slide that straw into my 32oz Orange Fanta, but kindly stop waggling that colonoscope around and go fetch the doctor.”

I’m more comfortable with the grizzled vet, someone that has seen it all and won’t be traumatized by the sight of anything I need seen. The issue seems to be that when one reaches the grizzled age as a patient, the grizzled vets of the medical world have hung up their stethoscopes and are doing all they can to unsee all that they’ve seen.

“Who’s your doctor?” Until about 5-years ago I proudly answered that question with, “I don’t have one.” I have one now. I have a doctor. He’s a nice young man. We have a pleasant conversation every October when my annual physical rolls around. Excuse me, I misspoke, they are called “well checks” nowadays. I suppose going in for a “well check” does sound a bit more pleasant than going in for a “physical”.

I went into my first well check with my pleasant young doctor expecting the same protocol I had experienced in the past with sports physicals. The protocol that involved nudity on my behalf and poking and prodding on the doctor’s behalf. Five years of well checks, and my doctor, that pleasant young man, has never once had me remove a stitch of clothing.

Years ago, it was expected that if you were going to the doctor for most anything, your naked butt was going to be wrinkling that odd butcher paper they roll out to shield the exam table from your wretched body stuff.

Earache…naked. Ingrown eyebrow hair…naked. Clubfoot…naked. Sprained thumb…naked.

Part of me is quite all right with having a pleasant fully clothed conversation every October, but another part of me is still in the old school “physical” mindset and feels like I’m being cheated. Would it stifle the pleasant conversation if I were to ask the pleasant young doctor if he’d like me to get naked? Perhaps he’s just too polite to ask?

The kids are all right, and I am quite pleased with the highly skilled and knowledgeable medical care they are able to provide me as I slide towards ABR…Advancing Bodily Ricketiness.

Be well my friends.