Rock, paper, scissors 

I have a new hatred for the paper gowns at a doctors office.  I sat in an exam room with an 8-year-old patient for 45 minutes.   My son was scheduled for a checkup.  It would have been a stress-free appointment had it not been for the constant rustling of the gown.    Like most children, he cannot sit still.   It’s no secret that I suffer from Misophonia.  A crisp apple can send me over the edge.   Being in a 10 x 10 room with a child in a paper gown is pure torture.  I was on the verge of ripping the damn thing off him when the doctor strolled in like she wasn’t nearly an hour behind schedule.   I wanted to scream,  “Where the hell have you been?”  I bit my tongue.

There are a lot of things I would change about a doctor’s office beginning with the music.   I don’t expect the pediatrician to play Wu-Tang Clan, but enough with the Soft Rock.   Even Phil Collins doesn’t want to hear A Groovy Kind of Love anymore.  It only makes the time drag and conjures up bad memories of middle school.  I was like countless teenage girls who sat in their rooms in the late 80s crying over a boy while listening to Phil Collins on a cassette player. You didn’t play a Phil Collins song to get pumped for the big game or when using your thigh master.  Phil helped you cry it out.

I could also do without the broken toys, books that are missing pages and magazines from 1998 in the waiting room.   Take my $35 co-pay and renew your subscription.  Furthermore, if you’re going to have a tv on the wall put some cartoons on it.   Watching a busty anchor read an infomercial on heartburn medicine isn’t a good distraction for a child who is about to get a flu shot.  She is almost as annoying as a paper gown.  Almost.