Let’s face it. Privacy is dead. Our laundry is being aired whether dirty or not, and we can’t always pin the blame on social media. The last haven of modesty and decorum has slowly eroded to the point that now, even the doctor’s office is a berth of lax security and breech of trust that rattles my last remaining shred of dignity.
The invasion of privacy begins with the sign-in sheet where everyone in the world can see a paper trail of where I’ve been, and leave it to their imagination as to why I had to see the doc. The receptionist thinks nothing of shouting out personal questions from behind her window into the waiting room full of people eager to listen to the details.
Since skin cancer runs in my family, I had a suspicious spot investigated by my dermatologist. Later that week, a woman asked me if I had enjoyed having my “work done.” I looked confused, and she explained, “Well, I saw your name on the sign-in sheet and figured you had a little “work” (wink-wink). Of all the cotton - picking nerve! I was ticked-off until I realized . . .
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