I don’t want no scrubs, either. But I am talking about medical issue wardrobe, not broke dudes.
When we first started dating, I thought it was fun to wear Arun’s scrub bottoms as pajama pants, sometimes in public. Oh, look at me! I’m dating a doctor! Megan, you adorable idiot. I grew disillusioned when our condo became overrun with wrinkled, dirty masses of cheap cotton in various shades of steel blue and emerald green.
My first strategy was to wash and fold them myself. This was annoying, as it clogged our washer and dryer and overall seemed like an exercise in futility. And then, my moment of Zen: I realized that there is a service at each hospital that washes scrubs for FREE! Enough of this.
I then issued an official directive to Arun to start returning the scrubs to work for cleaning on a regular basis. What actually happened: piles of dirty scrubs in our condo, “ready” to go out the door. Ready and waiting. And waiting. And W-A-I-T-I-N-G…
So, they were moved to Trader Joe’s bags at the back of our parking garage space. Until the building got wise and posted a notice in the elevator to keep parking spaces clear. From there, the overstuffed Trader Joe’s bags traveled the short distance to the trunk of Arun’s car. Well, a car trunk only has so much room.
The scrubs eventually reached their final resting place: either the hospital from whence they came, or a dumpster (sorry! not sorry! you would do the same).
Arun’s fellowship program kind of had it right: in order to get new scrubs, you had to return the old ones via a vending machine, and you were only allowed three pair at a time. This institution clearly understood human nature. Our Pittsburgh apartment was always dirty scrub pile free!
My takeaway lesson? Scrubs can multiply faster than you can say “drawstring”, so new boyfriends and girlfriends of medical professionals, beware!