Mo' 𝗦𝗖𝗥𝗨𝗕𝗦

Dispatch
02-15-02024

More and more people are wearing 𝗦𝗖𝗥𝗨𝗕𝗦 at 𝕄𝕠𝕩𝕚𝕖 ℂ𝕠𝕗𝕗𝕖𝕖.

It’s noon on a Tuesday and 𝗦𝗖𝗥𝗨𝗕𝗦 adorn no less than three patrons. They can’t all be nurses, can they? Two are sporting classic chlorine-pool-blues, and one is looking rather chic in a jet black short sleeved number, cinched a bit in the waist, with a fuchsia undershirt.

None of them appear to be rushing in for a hustled triple shot za-zing to sling them through the last hours of a ‘𝟭𝟮 𝗢𝗡’ shift. They’re posted up and casual, laptops and self-help books opened, sipping matcha lattes in ‘for here’ mugs.  

This might be the fallout of the rapid proliferation of dialysis clinics, ketamine therapy sites, Botox injection in-n-outs, & I.V. rehydration hot spots I see peppering strip malls. Even if that is the case, I was under the impression that the whole point of 𝗦𝗖𝗥𝗨𝗕𝗦 was their sterility from the outside world (their very namesake is derived from ‘scrubbed clean’). 𝗦𝗖𝗥𝗨𝗕𝗦 are the clothing equivalent of that paper ribbon around the hotel room toilet seat that says ‘sanitized for your protection’. It could reassuring — albeit dehumanizing — to print that right on the front of the 𝗦𝗖𝗥𝗨𝗕𝗦 themselves . . .

𝗛𝗘𝗔𝗟𝗧𝗛𝗖𝗔𝗥𝗘 𝗣𝗥𝗢𝗙𝗘𝗦𝗦𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡𝗔𝗟 𝗦𝗔𝗡𝗜𝗧𝗜𝗭𝗘𝗗 𝗙𝗢𝗥 𝗬𝗢𝗨𝗥 𝗣𝗥𝗢𝗧𝗘𝗖𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡

. . . in an assertive san-serif.

I web searched that absurd hotel toilet ribbon to make sure I didn’t imagine them (I haven’t seen one since the 90s). I did find proof, sandwiched in the scroll of an image search between ads for mood ring toilet seats. I’m now considering the purchase of a mood ring toilet seat as an imperative of self care.



I always imagined 𝗦𝗖𝗥𝗨𝗕𝗦 torn from hermetically sealed bags in sanitized locker rooms. Do nurses wash their own 𝗦𝗖𝗥𝗨𝗕𝗦? Are they required to toss them in their personals, stained with the fluids of a dozen human tragedies? That can’t be. I’m a line cook and I don’t even wash my own apron. If nurses are required to wash their own 𝗦𝗖𝗥𝗨𝗕𝗦, that is a diabolical injustice. Diabolical is not even powerful enough a word. I once vomited on a nurse. The thought of her dealing with that in off hour, uncompensated, is too much to bear.

It’s possible 𝗦𝗖𝗥𝗨𝗕𝗦 have entered the 𝓯𝓪𝓼𝓱𝓲𝓸𝓷-𝓸-𝓼𝓹𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓮 as the next ante-up of workwear commodification, and that I, in my duck-washed ᴄᴀʀʜᴀʀᴛᴛꜱ™, am behind the trend. Time to stop dressing like a tractor mechanic and start dressing like a vet tech.

Despite high stakes events during which 𝗦𝗖𝗥𝗨𝗕𝗦 are worn, they do have a cozy leisureness to them – a lite, breathable alternative to leggings and a hoodie. Perfect for Spring.

But the aura of medical professionalism they exude is a liability. A health emergency could lead to awkwardness. Sitting here in ᴄᴀʀʜᴀʀᴛᴛꜱ™, I don’t worry about someone rushing over and saying . . .

“Thank goodness you're here, the ol’ John Deere just bricked itself in the parking garage. I need the down-to-earth know-how of a corn fed grease monkey ASAP!”

. . . or . . .

“My soybean yields have been falling 10% per year since 2019 and I fear for the condition of my topsoil. I am considering switching to a rotation method with wheat, whaddaya think?”

. . .  or . . .

“My fence posts were dug shallow and the cows are never coming home!”

No, none of that, but if the hubby at the table-for-two next to me face plants into his seasonal fruit danish, I — hypothetically wearing 𝗦𝗖𝗥𝗨𝗕𝗦 now — would be in an disappointment in disguise . . .

“I’m sorry. I’m actually a line cook with a small Substack, the readership is growing though! The 𝗦𝗖𝗥𝗨𝗕𝗦? O no, I thrifted them. I try to thrift my clothes, it's more sustainable. Ah yes, of course go attend to your husband, sorry I can’t be of more help, God’s speed.”

All my identities call for a degree of LARPing — a ᖴᗩKE-IT-TIᒪ-I-ᗰᗩKE-IT roleplay ever approaching but never quite reaching true belief. As a writer, I pretend to be a writer and the more I believe the act, the more 【Ｉ　ａｍ　ｗｒｉｔｅｒ】 is etched upon the info plaque for my life. But the map is not the territory, and a life has so many etchings upon it, it may as well have none.

That might be the meta-proficiency above all proficiencies, a proficiency in the belief we are proficient.

But there are skills, or I mean, we do get good at things, right? I’m getting good at wok cookery, and you're getting good at gastroenterology, house flipping, or looking astoundingly aloof at 𝕄𝕠𝕩𝕚𝕖 ℂ𝕠𝕗𝕗𝕖𝕖 in a manner that gives you an allure, compelling me to wonder after your mystery. Kudos.

A lot of my own getting-good-ats fend off a fear of becoming one of those unfortunates who aren’t good at anything. I don’t actually believe those unfortunates exist. Proficiency is shackled to the flow of time. Even in extreme cases of sloth, we are forced to hone our sloth expertise, perhaps becoming such a top notch sloth to that we rival storied Zen patriarchs, besting their decades spent staring at cave walls in meditative states. Mastering nothing as means of transcendence .

If I do nothing for too long, all the things I would be doing procure megaphones to scream through . . .

╚(•⌂•)╝ “Finish the book. Find a better job. Sell that fuggin’ torque wrench on Craigslist!”  ╚(•⌂•)╝

There's a temptation in me to judge the less marketable/artistic getting-good-ats — a down-my-nosing at folks with exhaustive knowledge of Star Wars lore or stats of college basketball. But I recall my own lore repositories (ꜱᴛᴇᴘʜᴀɴ ᴋɪɴɢ’ꜱ ᴅᴀʀᴋ ᴛᴏᴡᴇʀ ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴀᴋɪʀᴀ ᴍᴀɴɢᴀ, ᴡᴀʀʜᴀᴍᴍᴇʀ 40ᴋ, ᴇᴛc.) and this knee-jerk judgment jerks right back, smacking in the face like rake. There is a degree of superfluousness at the core of every lore, from the bible discussing the J.C.-bronies at the table next to me (one of whom is wearing 𝗦𝗖𝗥𝗨𝗕𝗦 ), to flat earth truthers. I can see the appeal of a flat world where the icy poles extend out forever as lifeless wastes. That our lands are a special speck of paradise, the spot where a powerful paternal God once extinguished his cigarette.

There’s that lore, or the rational interpretation of the facts. Lore dies a dull death in a vat of facts.



An ex-Christian friend of mine was telling me about an ongoing debate they’re waging with their mother. In the 1990s, creationists pedestalize the humble bumble bee as proof of God’s grand design. The bumble bee you see, had more body mass than its wingspan could support (i.e. bumble bees were too chonk to fly). Its flight was a gravity defying miracle.

Anywoooo some science minded buzzkills involved themselves, mathing out secrets until the mystery was solved. Still, her mother chooses to believe that the bumble’s BMI is too high to fly, and its bulk is held aloft by the grace of God. My friend's goal was not to disprove the existence of God, but show that the pursuit of understanding does not undermine God existence. Why not just call the bumble flight equation the discovery of God’s mathematical precision?

Science was once grounded in the compulsion to understand God’s creation. I suppose things have got a bit to meddling since the 16th century, as science nipped away at the biblical claims like a horde of hungry bookworms. Setting off a cascade of — rather violent — perpetual rosary clutching. It would have been so much more beautiful if God remained, and the bible became another book written by folks who wanted to know them. The bible could slunk off the burden of truth and become another mythic tome, like the Upanishads, Homer’s Odyssey, or Infinite Jest. Full of hypocrisy, fallacy, and poetry.

There is so much I don’t know about bumble bees. Their of charm grows as I learn that they run excited little loops around in their nest when they home. I learn this is to communicate a successful foraging mission to the fam, and it remains lovely. Mystery and discovery dance to a song that goes on forever, swapping the lead.

As for 𝗦𝗖𝗥𝗨𝗕𝗦, just another divine mystery.