As you know, it's been a bit of an adjustment for me adapting to my new dresscode. Not gonna' lie, the calibi and the zuni bring out my rebellious side.
But regardless, I've been learning to successfully tie my calibi so that it stays on my head . . . most of the time . . . and I've been surprised the number of things I've been able to do in my wrap-around zuni without it ending up around my ankles.
When I work in the OR Bloc, I have to 'scrub in' so to speak. I change out of the zuni and scrub top that I wore from home and pick a set that lives in the OR. There used to only be three zuni's, but since there are more and more of us women working in the OR a few months ago the hospital purchased some extras.
My favorites are the oldest ones . . . they are light blue and yellow with a pretty manageable pattern. So when they are not at the laundry, those are the ones I choose to wear.
But being the oldest, they are also the thinest . . . which, as of today, I have come to realize has it's drawbacks.
I took one of the guys who helps out in the OR with me to put a cast on a patient with a broken arm and a brain injury. This patient is still highly agitated and disoriented, so we felt it best to go to him (which is somewhat comical to me, as he will be yelling at his family members and the nursing staff and thrashing in his bed, but as soon as I walk in the door and greet him, his tone changes from nasty to sweet as he says 'Bonjour Madame!' Ah, sometimes it's good to be loved).
The plastering went without event and as we were cleaning up, I squatted down to pick something up off the floor.
I stood up as quickly as I could and tried to assess the damage without bringing any notice to myself. M. and I had, thankfully, moved the bed from the wall in order to have easy access to the patients left arm. For the moment, my skivvies were shielded from view. But I had no idea how I was going to escape from this room full of men . . . remember Rule Number One: NO FREE SHOWS IN THERAPY! (that used to just be for my hospital-gown wearing patients!)
I had an idea.
I quick pulled off my gloves and grabbed the stuff on the bed, while simultaneously tugged at my scrub top to see if it could go any lower. I asked M. to get the rest of the bandages off the floor, since he still had his glove on (I know, good thinking!). He was happy to help, but I was in the way. I stepped to the side (instead of around the bed, which was what he was expecting me to do), and being still slightly in his way, he squeezed by and gave me a funny look as if to say 'what is wrong with you?'
But it worked. I grabbed the empty container that the plaster rolls had been in and nonchalantly held it over the gapping split at my backside. But with each step through the busy hallway I could feel the wind passing through (on one hand, it was kind of nice . . . sort of like built-in air conditioning!). So I decided to ditch the can and just grip it closed.
M. saw me toss the container and went back for it (as they have to return the empty one to the pharmacy in order to get a new one). Perfect! This gave me a chance to run around the corner to my office and switch the skirt around so that I could make back to the OR without further breaking Rule Number One.
I slid in the door of my office and slammed it behind me.
CRAP! The widows!
My windows face two rooms of the Private Ward. Normally they have the curtains drawn, but the folks who are there at the moment keep them open to let the breeze in. My office doesn't have any. Needless to say, the new first item on my to-do list is 'CURTAINS FOR OFFICE.'
I went and stood at the window, which is just slightly higher than my waist. I unwrapped the skirt and turned it 180 degrees.
I had thought that if I turned it the other way the tear would overlap with the skirt and I'd be fine. I was wrong.
Nothing but stark white thigh (that's right, Operation Golden Legs has so far been a complete failure).
I flipped it upside down, assuming it would then be at my shin-level. Again wrong. Lower thigh and knee. Hmm. This wasn't going to work. I would be trapped in my office forever.
Then I remembered a rusty safety pin in my desk drawer. I quick pinned the tear together and was on my way to the OR. I walked in through the sterilization room, thinking I was least likely to be seen coming in that way. Wrong. About half of the men that I work with every day were in there sitting around drinking coffee and shooting the breeze (which, thanks to the pin, was no longer hitting my thighs).
As I raced out of there, trailed by several 'What's the rush?'es, I ran into my friend R. who has recently been moved from WestWing Secretary to OR Bloc Secretary. She saw the botched up pinning job, pointed to my leg and said 'What happened to you?'
'Oh, you're never going to believe this!' and for once, my French did not fail me.
We stood there, alone in the OR Bloc laughing hysterically at my (only-to-me, typical) misadventure. I undid the pin to show her the extent of the damage and she laughed even harder. But, of course, before I could repin the thing, or get to the changing room unseen, all the men who had been drinking the coffee came walking in.
Out of sheer instinct I grabbed the rip (which was the length of the span between the tip of my little finger and my thumb) and fisted it . . . which naturally pulled the skirt up to expose my right calf. I stood there, looking like an idiot (probably inducing quite the scandal) and each one of them gave me that same look as M.: What is wrong with you? If only they knew!