Though I’ve always had an liking for the medical profession and have always wondered if I should have entered medicine, there is almost nothing worse than going to the doctor. I can’t stand it. I’m not talking about the dentist, podiatrist, psychologist or other sorts of doctors; rather, the general practitioner kind that will lock you in a room with them and proceed to poke, prodder and generally invade your personal bubble. The humiliation, the raw honesty, the nakedness of it all is a more than I can handle – being the mostly quiet and reserved guy that I am.

What amazes me is how much we’re willing to simply divulge to the doctor. Any questions asked, you answer without any more hesitation than is necessary to think of the answer. No where else in society do we just cast aside our safety blanket and ignore our personal bubble. You must reveal how many times you really floss every week to the dentist; the shrink will want to know your most intimate details about pretty much everything; the doctor will want to physically examine you closely, seeing everything which you normally go out of your way to hide; and the chiropractor will need to know that you really threw out your back because of the Kama Sutra, even though you told everyone else it was while picking up a heavy box. Though it seems still that we will only reveal just what’s necessary for the occasion. When the dentist asks how often you floss you leave out the details of why and only answer how often, for example.

The one and only satisfaction that I get out of going to the doctor – well, besides the cure for whatever ails me – is that I will never see the doctor again; I’ll never have to face them again and be reminded how much I had to reveal to that perfect stranger. Then of course there is the scheduled followup visit a week later.