H's boss hurt her leg earlier this year and had to wear a boot, over which she often wore hospital scrubs. And every time she wore them she referred to them as her "Armani" scrubs. I've decided she got this from a promotional ad for a television show about nurses called HawthoRNe (get it?). H was unwilling to verify if his boss's pants were in fact made by Giorgio Armani.
I totally rolled my eyes at the Armani Scrubs. I mean COME ON H's boss, I've been wearing reject scrubs forever; they're so soft and comfy from years of washing, and their only markings are sizes labeled haphazardly in permanent ink. Clearly name-brand scrubs are just for suckers.
This new position I have is new to everybody: It's only shared by three other people, no other departments have it, nobody knows what we do and even fewer know who we are. So they're making us wear these khaki pseudo-labcoat-smock-thingies with our names and titles embroidered on them for a little recognition. And after I spent the last month trying to get by wearing my brother's used scrubs and avoiding purchasing said jacket, the director pretty much pointed me out and told me to get one. So I had to suck it up.
So this weekend, when H and I spent an ungodly amount of time in the Medical Uniforms store (mostly because the woman purchasing in front of us couldn't decide between Azure and Merlot; she ended up getting both), I purchased something I would normally scoff at: Grey's Anatomy-brand scrubs. I took one look at the TV-brand line (and their price tag) and harrumphed. Then I tried on every other style and brand and hated them.
The Grey's pants are SO DANG SOFT, as though they'd been washed a thousand times already. The cut is flattering--though I'd rather not have the split-flare leg--and there are beautiful, deep pockets. They don't drag on the floor and don't wrinkle easily, either (MAJOR PLUS). And after 11.5 hours of running around today, they still look as nice as they did when I first tried them on.
I stopped watching the show last season after the plotline became too ridiculous to bear, but a girl's got to put aside her principles when it comes to a nice-fitting pair of pants. I guess no one really has to find out; the khaki jacket more than covers up the waistband label. But I'll know, deep down inside. It's just a matter of how long it'll take to stop bothering me.