Yes, you can just imagine, can't you?
But I did have to run by here and tell you before we're swept up in our morning whirlwind of lilac-scented soap and satin ribbons that I have a bit of a punchline to my observation (and your wholehearted concurrance) about the ludicrosity (oh, how I love to make up words, people) of stashing your underpants out of sight at the OB's office.
I went in yesterday for my umpteenth non-stress test, for which I was generously allowed to lie on my side this time because I politely made it quite clear last week that lying on my back on the plywood and Nawgerhide examining table for an hour, strapped and encircled by cables and wires and about 400 yard of Velcro was um, MILDLY RIDICULOUSLY UNCOMFORTABLE for a 38 weeks plus pregnant lady of 40 and that I wouldn't be subjecting myself to that particular brand of torture again, ahem ... Dear. Pat pat pat, smile.
Because of the thoughtful layout of the exam rooms, just like the exam rooms in every. single. OB's. office. everywhere, which is to say the layout wherein one has one's nether-regions aimed squarely in the face of anyone/everyone who opens or passes the door, no matter how impossibly far to either side one le-e-e-eans one's knees in effort to realign one's delicate self with the orange CAUTION: SHARPS box on one wall or the Galligan's Guide to Dilation and Effacement for Birth Depicted in Beautiful 100% Pink and Blue Cotton-Fibre Origami poster on the other, I choose, against the nurse's instructions, to wear my underpants during the non-stress test part of my visits because frankly, an hour of airing my bits and buns doorward as I cower under my 2x2 paper towel is about 60 minutes too long, even though I know that in choosing to disobey I'm going to have to have an awkward moment with the doctor, who, in the end, will come to unstrap me from the table and move on to the poking and prodding phase of the investigation, at which time she will look puzzledly at the waistband of my underwear and say, with no small amount of consternation, You're still DRESSED!
(Yes ma'am. If my underwear, shirt and this puzzle-piece of paper "fabric" constitute being "dressed" then, well, I confess to being Guilty as Charged!)
And then I'll have to think up sump'm witty to say to break the tension caused by my rebellion, while simultaneously hopping down from the table and delicately dropping my drawers and tossing them as imperceptibly as possible AROUND the doctor and onto the chair with my other clothing while she stands there waiting.
So yesterday, I said to her as I stripped and flung and hopped back on the table, "I mentioned last week on my blog how funny it is to me that I come into your office each week knowing you're doing to do a pelvic exam, but I still find it completely humiliating for you to see my underwear."
She laughed. Quite a bit. And said, "Really?"
"Yes! And about 20 or so other women agreed with me. Wholeheartedly!"
"You know..." it dawns on her, "I DO THAT TOO! I guess to me, underwear is much more personal than body parts."
"Well, underpants do say a lot about a person."
"THEY DO, DON'T THEY?"
Keep hidin' your drawers, y'all.
I'm just sayin'.