Fashion Week Fashionista

I just got home after rapid cycling my last two shifts. Rapid cycling means I worked a swing shift followed by a morning shift. Shifts stacked like this are really tough. Imaging getting home at 12 am, trying to shut down your hyper-stimulated brain as fast as possible so you can catch a few hours of sleep before your alarm goes off at 5:45 am.  Needless to say, I am beat since I didn’t really sleep well the night before. A few hours after arriving home, I awake to clumsily find myself on my couch. I freakin’ love this thing. It is so cozy.

After rehydrating myself I feel a second wind brewing. I get up to grab a snack and realize the trash is full. I’ve neglected this chore for too long. Reluctantly, I gather my trash and head out to the dumpster. My neighbor sees me as I cross the courtyard and with a repulsed and disapproving look says, “I can’t believe you just hang out at home in scrubs. That is so disgusting.”

Chuckling, I tell her I am tired and comfortable. It’s so funny the contrast in our lives. She has a nice job where the only physical contact she has is shaking the hands with colleagues or clients. Maybe she has to deal with a coworker down the hall who has a cold down, but otherwise, she sits at a clean, organized desk. She wears nice business clothes and probably would enjoy one of those fashion week fashionista runway swag bag haute couture events. It would probably ruin her day if she spilled coffee on her outfit.

Me on the other hand, I rock my scrubs. The ones I wear are broken in from my training. There is no pair of slacks that would ever be as comfortable as my scrubs. They are a powder blue that perfectly accentuates my almond-colored eyes. The pants drag on the ground to protect my ankles when I walk. The top is just long enough to cover the money maker. Instead of the troublesome task of unbuttoning my pants when I come home, I simply pull a drawstring and VOILA. Truth be told, coffee would be the nicest thing that could spill on my work clothes.

Upon coming home, after doing a spot check and realizing that there is no blood, feces, or vomit on my scrubs (it was a good day), I am more than happy to prolong my time in my work clothes as I decompress from the last 24 hours of stress and work. I guess this is just another example of how different the life of an EM doctor is. I’m too tired to explain this to her, so I drop the trash in the dumpster and I return to my cocoon of sofa and scrubs.

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Crash Course

Crash Course