I started my new top-secret job recently. I can’t tell you exactly what it is, but I am at liberty to reveal that I work in a medical facility. I noticed on my very first day that pretty much all the medical-type people are wearing scrubs, and even though my particular job would not typically be classified as “medicalish,” I decided to take a chance and ask my supervisor if it would be okay if I wore scrubs, too.
My supervisor thought about my request for an appropriate amount of time (two seconds, possibly three) then said decisively, “I don’t care one way or another.”
That means I get to wear scrubs!
Have you ever worn scrubs? They’re like pajamas!
I immediately went out and bought a couple of sets. I was ultra-worried that the uniform people at the Uniform Selling Place would ask for my non-existent medicalish ID badge before letting me walk into the store and try on anything. Nope. I thought the clerk would say, “Ma’am? I need a notarized letter from your boss and a copy of your last three paychecks verifying that you do, indeed, work in a medical kind of place.” She didn’t. Instead, she said, “We take Visa, Mastercard, American Express, personal checks with a valid driver’s license, and layaway.”
I’m not sure why she mentioned the layaway part. Have you priced scrubs lately? I spent more on a grande triple latte Frappuccino this morning than I paid for the scrubs.
The Husband was irritated when I got home from the Uniform Selling Place. He took one look at the bulging shopping bag and said, “Oh, God, what sort of scheme is it this time?”
“I told you, I was picking up my new uniform.”
“Uniform? Ha! Uniform makes it sound like that’s what they wanted you to wear. You casually mention to your supervisor that you want to wear scrubs and they say whatever, and next thing you know—more random clothes clogging up your closet.”
“These are not random clothes. These are my scrubs.” I said the word scrubs like one might say diamond tiara if one were, say, Princess Kate Middleton.
Sure enough, the other parents at the bus-stop noticed my officially officialish medicalia attire right away.
“Halloween is not for a few more weeks, right?” I heard one bus-stop mom whisper to another.
“This is not a costume,” I corrected. (Working in the medical building doing important non-medical things had apparently enhanced my hearing.) “I work in a medical facility.”
I could tell by the rapt expression on her face she was waiting for me to elaborate. She wanted me to say something like, “I am secretly a podiatrist,” or “I perform open-heart surgery on my days off from the high-end kitchen store,” or “I am studying to be a manicurist at a fancy day spa.”
Instead, I gave her an enigmatic smile, a smile that said, Hon, you can fill in the blanks for yourself.
A new level of respect surrounded me at the bus-stop, a level that reverberated, “MOV is obviously super-duper-magruper smart, because she works at some sort of medical kind of office, and she wears scrubs!”
I braced myself for the questions that I knew would follow, questions like, “MOV, Tyler’s had a nasty cough for over a week, do you think it’s bronchitis?” or “Could you give me a second opinion on this suspicious mole on my ankle?” or “Does this mean you won’t be driving the soccer carpool on Thursday afternoons anymore?”
Even though I was armed with answers to those questions (yes, no, yes), they knew better than to use up all their questions the very first time they saw me in uniform. They decided to pace themselves and save most (okay: all) of their questions for another day.
I spent the better part of 20 minutes lovingly ironing my precious scrubs this evening so they would be spectacularly medically beauteous for tomorrow morning.
“You know you can just toss those in the dryer on high and all the wrinkles will come out on their own?” inquired The Husband helpfully right when I was finishing up. “I thought that is why you bought them: the minimal care required.”
The Husband does know me well. I like things with minimal care required, things like invisible dogs and second homes that don’t exist but The Husband and I talk about as if they do (“Oh, sorry, I’d love to help out on that school volunteer project fundraiser, but we’ll actually be at our second home in Portugal that week.”) But he forgot one crucial detail: Looking smart trumps minimal care.
I just went online and ordered a new accessory I figure I can wear every day with my scrubs: a stethoscope.