The rise and fall of frumpzilla.

Ugh.
I work in a hospital.
I wear scrubs.
EVERY.
DAY.

Not fun colorful, funky, me-esque scrubs, but plain old blue, hospital issued OR scrubs. They are baggy. Big baggy, unisex, drawstring waist, hospital logo stamped scrubs.

I brought this on myself. Five years ago, when I was sitting in the small board room being interviewed I asked, with a little too much excitement in my voice, if I could wear scrubs. Not just any scrubs, but these abysmal, soul crushing hospital scrubs.

I had to change into them anyway, I rationalized, as I would be spending time in the OR. I might as well just keep them on.

Part of the problem was that I spent my early education in Catholic School. In my formative years I was never held responsible for dressing myself in something presentable. Every day was the same. Same plaid jumper, same white blouse, same navy shoes. Every day. For years.

And
I
Loved
It

I looked exactly the same every day. I looked exactly like everyone else. Uniforms were school issued, right down to our scrunchies and our shoes. There was no leeway. No scrambling around the mall to find something cute in navy. Nuh-uh. Everyone wore exactly the same thing, by exactly the same company, in exactly the same way. Every day.

This was great for me. It meant I could sleep in later. It meant I never had to think about what I was going to wear. It meant, no matter how bad my morning was, I was going to show up to school looking exactly like everyone else. Marvelous.

Well after my mom lost her mind and the school finally kicked us out, I headed off to public school. ... . and I never really did learn how to dress myself.

You remember right? Junior high? The perpetual disaster that was my taste in...everything? I know, I know, we were all odd kids, and we all had odd taste when it came to dressing ourselves, but I wasn't working on that awkward, angsty, weirdo look. It just came naturally.

Do you remember my lime green jeans? I had a matching lime green shirt that I often wore with them. Oblivious to the fact that I looked like Kermit the Frog after exposure to nuclear waste. In my mind I looked perfectly presentable. Someone said something to me on the bus about it one day on my way home, I don't remember what he said, but I do remember trying to figure out what on earth there was to criticize about my outfit. They're just clothes, right? What does it matter what I look like?

That was the year, somewhere around the end of seventh grade, that I finally learned that I did in fact, need to brush my hair in the morning. Yeah. I was totally that kid. (I'll scan my yearbook picture for you when I get home, I promise.)

Decorum was always wasted on me. I had things to do! Books to read, trees to climb, stamps to collect...who cares what I look like while I'm doing it? The answer apparently is everyone. *laughs* Oh well.

Makeup is much the same. My sister started collecting it somewhere in elementary school. I was in high school before I ever even tried to wear it, and in my early twenties before I started wearing it even semi-regularly. And even then, it was mostly to impress girls or because my roommates were doing it.

I did however, learn to dress myself...for the most part...if I had to. If we were going out somewhere where pictures were going to be taken of me, or where I would run into one of my ex's, or better yet, one of my ex friends or roommates. I did a reasonably good job at building up my wardrobe. I learned to walk in heels. I cut my hair so that shaggy and sticky-upy was what I was going for rather than what I ended up with, and then, then I started working here.

There's something comforting about scrubs. And I think it goes back to grade school, and knowing, really knowing that no matter how bad I looked, I was going to look just like everyone else. That it would never ever matter. And it doesn't.

I LIVE in scrubs. I mean it. I don't even wear anything else anymore. I go home, strip off my scrubs and lie around in my unds. The prospect of picking out an outfit, dressing myself, doing my hair, it's all just too much effort.

No thank you.

As I have become more and more comfortable in my scrubs and with my scrub life, other aspects of my decorum have fallen to the wayside.

I never, ever do my hair. I wear a bandana every day. My dad calls them head rags. I look cute in them, in an earthy, lazy-mazy kind of way, but that's not why I wear them. Really really, I'm just too lazy to do my hair. Too lazy to comb it out when it's wet. Too lazy to blow it dry. Too lazy to straighten it. Too lazy to even just defriz it. Nope. Why waste the energy when I can just slap a bandana on my head and call it a day?

You may be asking yourself then, why on earth do I pay so much money to have my hair cut if I refuse to do it? Why waste the $100 every couple of months for something I don't appreciate. Why not just pay $12 at great clips for a pixie cut and call it a day?

The answer is that I like the OPTION of being able to do something with my hair. I may never actually do it, but I like to know that should the mood strike me I could. And it would look damn good. Better than your hair. Better than everyone's hair. Because I'm awesome.

What's the point of all this you say? Well the point is it's got to stop. I'm damn near 27 and at some point decorum is going to matter. I can't possibly get away with this for much longer, and leaving this particular path of least resistance is going to be hard. Really hard. Possibly epic.

And
I
Don't
Want
To
Do
It

Growing up sucks. In case you missed that. Okay, maybe not, but parts of it are definitely not as awesome as expected. Like this...and bills. Not a big fan of those either.

Moral of the story- I WILL post a picture of me. EVERY DAY. Wearing something that is not scrubs. I can't promise that it will look good, but we've all got to start somewhere. At least this way you can laugh along with me, and hold me to my promise to grow up at least a little bit. To brush my hair, to pick out my own clothes, to wear eyeliner when appropriate. All that stuff I've been so diligent about avoiding.

I'll update this with pictures when I get home.

I hope you're lungs aren't struggling to handle all that fresh air up there, and that the scenery isn't smashing your soul. :p Call when you can. Lots of love to both of you from both of us.