Before clinics started, I was mentally prepared to take on any type of attending. I half-expected all my upper levels to make me pee in my pants with endless rapid fire questions. Until this month, however, I was spoiled by the nicest and most welcoming of them.
My work day usually clocks for 10-12 hours. This past week though, I found myself walking into Trader Joe's with compression shorts that would've made me look spankingly smexy except for the delineated deep panty lines on my tushy. I had taken off the skirt that was masquerading the traumatic sight, and I was about to go to bed before realizing hunger is not the state to go to bed in. And the very bed that I've been snoozing only 4-5 hours in for the past 3 days was no reminder that I was still in never-go-out-in-public-in-these. I might as well have walked in naked.
Plus, why were there so many people doing their grocery shopping at 8:30 pm on a Friday night? Regardless, my TJ white nectarines accompanied the 30-page tuberculosis treatment guideline that my attending expects me to present orally come Monday. Shame never tasted so sweet.
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