I found it kind of endearing, the no-frills approach of the “Sample Room”–the dim fluorescent lighting, faux-leather La-Z-Boy recliner, TV monitor, stack of porno tapes, rack of dirty magazines, sink, toilet.Finally, someone gets me, I thought.It wasn’t until the deed was done and I stepped back out into the harsher light of the situation at hand, sans chi, that the sheepishness set in. I wended my way through the clinic corridors back to the reception area, past all the couples still waiting their turn–the men cracking the spines of their sports sections, the women all thumbing their pulses, stroking their bellies.I followed the blue directional arrows down the hall to the pre-op area, and when I finally found my wife tucked away behind her little partition, all prepped and ready, the imbalance of our separate roles was hard to miss.Here we were, Retrieval Day–the day Elizabeth and I both had been working toward for 3 months, the day my wife’s eggs were to be harvested and united with my fresh “sample”–and look at us: She wore a blue smock, elastic-banded cap, and matching paper slippers and was just moments away from a procedure that bore closest comparison to some obscene…