I’m Not Modest—Yeah, Right

Confidence, dignity, and the humility of dropping trou on command.

Let’s go ahead and get this out in the open:

I’ll get naked.
I’m not shy.
Never have been.

I’ll strip down faster than a toddler headed toward a sprinkler.

And listen—
if not being modest were an Olympic sport, I’d be the guy warming up in the parking lot.

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But there’s a BIG difference between choosing to be naked
and having your modesty violently checked by the universe.

Let me explain.

Women?
God bless ’em.

They’ve been getting their modesty tested since birth. Bikinis, mini-skirts, mammography, childbirth… it never stops.
I don’t know how y’all do it. I’d need a support group and a prayer circle.

Men?

We don’t face real modesty until later in life.
And when it hits—it takes you out at the knees.

Growing up, I had the same doctor my whole childhood back in small-town Alabama.

Old man.
Calm voice.
Smelled like cough drops and floor wax.

Easy physicals.
No surprises.
Nothing dramatic.

Then I moved to Atlanta for college, got a job with Fulton County, and they sent me to a county doctor for a physical.

Fine.
Done it before.
No big deal.

The nurse sticks me in a little exam room and says,
“Strip to your underwear.”

Done.

Standing there like I’m auditioning for Magic Mike: Average Joe Edition.

And after what feels like an hour, the door opens…

…and in walks a 6’6” African-American woman who looks like she coaches the Falcons’ defensive line on weekends.

She says,
“Hi. I’m the county’s examining physician.”

Ma’am…

I’m from a town with one stoplight and a Dairy Queen.
Dang it— it had honestly never occurred to me there were lady doctors outside my rural bubble.
Especially ones who could bench-press me with one arm, while checking her watch.

She starts the exam—ears, nose, throat, chest, lungs, reflexes—
and I’m thinking,

Okay… maybe I’ll escape with my dignity.

Then she says the two words every man fears:

“Drop ’em.”

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Y’all.

Everything disappeared.
I’m talkin’ full retreat.
Gone quicker than a tax refund in April.

And the indignities we suffer only get worse with age, because:

At forty or so, here comes the prostate exam.

Nobody—and I mean NOBODY—is ready for the moment your doctor snaps on a glove covered in mystery gel and says:
“This will be quick.”

Quick for HIM.

He’s chatting about the weather and his vacation plans.
I’m over here clenching up like I’m hanging off the side of a cliff.

And just when I thought my modesty couldn’t be tested any harder…

hip surgery.

At least I was asleep for the worst of the humiliation.

But the next morning, I’m told an occupational therapist has to teach me how to bathe before I can be discharged.

“I know how to bathe,” I said.
“I’ve been doing it since Kennedy was in office.”

The nurse replied,
“You’ve just had major surgery. This is protocol.”

Translation: no opting out, pal.

Fine.
Send her in.

Well… they did.

And in walks a pretty little blonde girl who looked about nineteen and smelled like strawberry shampoo and student loan debt.

She introduces herself all sweet and professional—
and I’m thinking:

This is it.
This is how modesty dies.
In a hospital bathroom with a teenager supervising.

I even suggested she could write out the steps and we could skip the demo, but she wasn’t budging.

“Sir… please remove your gown.”

At this point I was out of dignity, out of patience, and out of care.

With resignation, I dropped the gown.

She did her job.
Very polite.
Very thorough.
She went on with her day.

I picked up my clothes, gathered up what was left of my ego, and got dressed.

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So yeah—
my modesty has been tested more than Dollar Tree pregnancy kits.

But the truth?

I say I’m not modest.

Can I honestly claim to be immodest?

Hell no.
It just sounds cool when I say it.

And if you’re sitting there thinking,
“I’m not modest.”

Buckle up, Sparky—
under the right circumstances,
with the rubber glove,
and when you least expect it,
your modesty will get checked so hard,
you’ll suddenly decide that eye contact is overrated.

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We’ll keep The Condition honest, even when the truth makes us blush.