Dr. Living Room, I Presume?

Scalpel?

Cotton swabs?

Butterfly needle?

Gauze? No, the extra-long roll. That’s the one.

Thanks for humoring me. I’m wearing my scrubs again.

No, no -- my quarterlife crisis has not directed me to medical school. This outfit was an early birthday gift. No, not from a doctor. But his sister is a doctor. Let me explain. Stat.

From ages 3 to 19, I wanted to be a doctor. Between ages 3 and 6, I also hoped to be a professional bride, ballerina and cheerleader, but I soon learned to answer “doctor” when adults inquired about my career goals. “Doctor” meant “smart,” “noble,” and, I was told, “reasonably well-paid.” My other vocational choices ensured really pretty dresses, but they didn’t seem to elicit the same satisfactory feedback. “You can be a doctor and a bride,” my mother promised. Nope, too much work. What, and give up my hair salon?

In high school I gravitated to the humanities, but, like most teenage girls, I concentrated on the “man” part. Boys, boys, boys . . . unrequited, requited. Whatever. September 10, 1997. I’m 17, and I need some touchy-feely love and a Modern European research paper topic. Funny how things don‘t change.

Here’s what ruined my MD: Organismal Biology, 2000-2001. It sounded cool in the course catalogue, but the Venn Diagram displaying “sounds cool” and “ends successfully” doesn’t overlap a whole lot, as I’ve discovered (other examples: buying leather pants, bonging five beers at once, etc.).

So, now I’m a former English major who watches “Grey’s Anatomy.” As of last week, I can ogle McDreamy in my scrubs. Again, I’ll thank Eric. (Though if you think I’m going to become one of those sonnet-reciting, “what light through yonder…” former English majors in l-u-v, you are so totally wrong. I’m way more “one fish / two fish” than “how do I love thee / let me count the ways.” You know this.)

After snatching a passing grade from Bio (barely), I swore off prokaryotes and eukaryotes (who should be named “conkaryotes.” I mean, come on.). I did not, however, defer my dream of owning medical scrubs. They just looked so sexy-yet-comfortable. And they said “intelligent” in a way that Juicy Couture did not.

Unfortunately, psychologists don’t get to wear scrubs. There’s little chance your neuroses will splatter all over my Gap shirt. Fate forced me to 1) marry a doctor or 2) seduce a fellow blogger whose sister is a doctor. I’m sure there were other options, but they didn’t immediately occur to me.

Eric presented me with these scrubs, along with two collections of New York Times crossword puzzles, for my 2-6. Thank you, Murky (and Murky’s older sis). I’ve found that scrubs are the perfect attire for working crossword puzzles around the house. They’re also excellent as dancewear. How did George Clooney avoid turning his OR into a discotheque? Last night I had the best intentions of preparing this eggplant salad from Epicurious, but once I turned on the radio . . . paging Dr. Groove. I fell instant victim to Steve Miller Band’s “The Joker,” with dance moves that should not be resuscitated. Ever. In the words of Jackson Browne: “Doctor, my eyes!”

Florence Nightingale, I ain’t. Nor Katherine Heigl. But if your psyche needs TLC, I will happily Macarena until you feel better.