“Hey, fucktard! Yeah, you wearing medical scrubs on the F train. Yeah, that’s awesome you’ve a hot pink pair to match your filthy running shoes. I bet you’re super comfortable sitting in those delightfully loose cotton garments. Unfortunately, your level of ignorance is making me extremely uncomfortable,” I thought to myself one sunny day in NYC.
Think about it: the purpose of scrubs is to maintain at least a semi-sterile environment. As in, where scrubs are worn should be secluded, detached, or made separate from the putridly dirty and infested urban world. This cannot be that difficult to understand.
Granted, I understand the convenience of not having to change [let alone scrub off by means of a shower] at work but what about sitting in a carriage that smells strongly of piss, often enough other human excrement, and then walking into a healthcare facility. Just boarding the subway alone demands pushing through some sort of revolving mechanism forcing clothing to make a grand amount of deliberate contact with an oily stainless steel surface. Also, sitting amongst people coughing, sneezing, yawning urinating and possibly defecating is hardly sterile. Well, the urine might be. But shit isn’t; shit is about as bad as it gets.
Even worse is seeing shoppers in scrubs. Just merely running errands in scrubs begs the question: is this person going into or coming from a supposed to be sterilized environment where they are quite likely to have encountered someone with some sort of pathogen or worse yet, is this fucking idiot on break?! Not only is this first class transportation between environments for any number of microorganisms willing to venture between the realms of what-should-be-clean and glorious unadulterated FREEDOM!
This can’t be so demanding that my brain is interpreting these circumstances as logical incongruity. Correct me if I’m wrong but for a world that is criticized for being entirely too mysophobic there’s rampant stimulated growth of bacteria and infectious agents. But yes, toting that hand sanitizer dangling from a blackened key chain or hanging one off of a scuffed backpack kicked about the floor. Just do me a favor: go ahead and buy the gallon bottle of Purel and drink it.