Observation: If I look at certain things I did when I was 15, I'm often extremely embarrassed by them, and have been since I was about 20. But I can't think of anything I've done since I was 20 that I feel similarly embarrassed about.

Possible explanations:

1. Personal growth/change rate stalled around 20; I stopped "advancing" in ways that would lead me to know enough to be embarrassed about more recent things. Or at least, I'm just less different from me-at-20 than me-at-20 was from me-at-15, and so more easily feel justified in post-20 actions (e.g. due to fundamental attribution error applying more cleanly)
2. Propensity to store embarrassing memories decreased around 20; I still do just as much fundamentally-embarrassing stuff but I'm less good at remembering it
3. I've hit some kind of "embarrassment critical threshold": a point in personal development where I outgrew or suppressed most impulses that would be embarrassing later. Also counts if I became better at predicting what would later be embarrassing.
4. Generically my life has had less variance per day after 20, or the moments in it have been differently-selected, resulting in fewer opportunities to do embarrassing things

1. Get some kind of bad respiratory sickness with a moderate fever
2. Test to see if it's COVID; it is
3. Get a remote doctor's appointment to see if you can get a paxlovid prescription.
4. Doctor is happy to prescribe paxlovid, and even emphasizes that you need to get it today, partly because you have risk factors for complications
5. [Feeling feverish] Unfortunately you live in the SF Bay area. There are only two pharmacies within 5 miles of your house, and both are known for having bad service, presumably because crime forced the other ones to close about five years ago
6. [Feeling even more feverish] CVS sends you a text saying that your insurance has declined the prescription and it will cost you $1777 for one week of paxlovid (not a typo)
7. You Google how this can be, and discover that Pfizer offers some kind of copay card that covers $1400 of it. You shrug and print out the card, wondering how it can be that this is a socially appropriate outcome; nobody told you about this program, you had to Google it yourself.
8. Put on a kf94; go to the closer CVS. Stand in line for 15 minutes. They tell you that, even though, yes, it's not closing time yet, they can't possibly fill your prescription in time; I guess they had assumed that no one would be stupid enough to actually want their $1777 prescription filled, and had cancelled it. Not to worry though, they say, just go to the other CVS across town: they're open two hours later. You protest that you don't actually have the prescription to hand to them, but they assure you that the other CVS will be able to "pull" the prescription.
9. [Still feeling feverish] Go to the other CVS. Wait another 15 minutes. "Oh, gosh, I'm sorry sir but actually there's nothing we can do because of the way they cancelled the prescription at the other CVS. You'll have to come back tomorrow."
10. Fall over and fucking die