(Frederica)

Sherry keeps saying I need to give my Giggles a title. Not sure why. IT IS WHAT IT IS. (. . .or is it. . .?) Yawn. Trés boring. I decided to name each Giggles instead. Well, really. Did you expect anything less from someone as. . . unique. . . as myself? Certainly not! Whatever name pops into my head. No relation to anything I might write. (Correction: anything GOD might write. Which proves He has a crazy sense of humor!) Today’s Giggles is Frederica.

I’ve been having trouble with my scrubs tops. They’re shrinking. Rather irritating since they’re supposed to be some high-falutin’ new stretchy-in-all-directions blend of material I paid a small fortune for. Oh, and before you start laughing—I heard you take a breath. Oh, yes. I did—I have NOT gained weight. So don’t you go thinkin’ it’s because I’m putting on the pounds. I’m not. My scrubs pants fit the same. All my other clothes fit the same. I even went to Wal-Mart, bought a set of scales to weigh myself. After I picked myself up off the floor from fainting when I saw how much I did weigh that first time, I’ve been keeping track. I haven’t gained. I haven’t fainted again. I keep a box of Kleenex on the bathroom counter to stem the flow of tears. Not mine. The scale’s.

“That should be easy to fix,” I can hear you saying. “Just get new scrubs tops.” No, I’m afraid it’s not that easy. Because I’d have to buy new scrub pants to match. It’s kinda like the Biblical Scripture saying don’t put new wine into an old wine skin. Or some such. If I were to buy new scrubs tops and pair them with old scrubs pants the color difference would be hideous. Perish the thought! I am such a fashion diva, you know. And although I enjoy watching What Not To Wear, I don’t think they’re always right. Some things need to be matchy-matchy. Here in the deep South it is not acceptable to wear white shoes before Easter or after Labor Day unless those shoes are athletic shoes. (Sorry, Stacy. Sorry, Clinton.)

Speaking of shoes, I love shoes. I adore shoes. I am my mother’s daughter. I think each piece of clothing should have at least three pairs of shoes to go with it. Mom used to say we had to be blood relatives of Imelda Marcos. (Google her, kids.) Since I am forced to wear a revolting shade of royal blue that makes me look like a gigantic blueberry, I wear pretty, colorful shoes to make up for it. Dansko shoes, as a matter of fact. I try to wait until the style I want goes on sale because they’re usually $130+ but I’m not always successful. I keep logging on the Dansko website, looking at the picture until I can’t stand it any longer. I become dehydrated from drooling. Seriously. So far I’ve paid full price only twice. Oops. Three times. But one is a sister brand so that doesn’t count because I bought it at the uniform store and prices there are always high. Uh-huh.

Personally, I think we should be able to wear whatever color scrubs we please. WE pay for them. The idea is that wearing a particular color is supposed to be so our patients know which person is there visiting them. I don’t know why Administration bothers. If you’re wearing scrubs? Our patients think you’re a “nurse.” I told Sandy (the Administrator) since she’s the Big Boss she can allow us to wear whatever we want. She said, “No, it’s company policy.” To which I replied, “And. . .? You’re Administrator. Change it.” She said, “No, I can’t do that.” I thought, Then why be an Administrator if you can’t do things? Like change dumb policies. That sounds. . . dumb.

You see, I have some truly adorable scrub tops to go with matching scrub pants. I would be the CUTEST THING EVER if I could wear my own outfits. (Of course, I would have to buy more shoes.) I think I should start a petition. Or maybe a protest. With signs. We could march around the parking lot chanting, “I am not a blueberry!”

I was thinking. I bet God doesn’t look like a gigantic blueberry. Nowhere in the Bible does it say He resembles fruit. Or vege-table. But He is bigger than a bread box. (Google that too, kids.) The Word says He created us in His Own Image. Considering how many different body types there are in the world, He has tons of Images. So why did I end up with the five feet tall, five feet around image? I could’ve been 5’7″, 117#. That’s a really nice image. Just sayin’. 

It doesn’t matter what I look like. It doesn’t matter I’m wearing. As long as my private bits and pieces aren’t exposed—like the model on Sports Illustrated’s cover (you know she and I look soooo much alike)—for everybody and their cousin’s nephew’s parrot to see. God knows me from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. And every single cell in between. He calls me His beloved child. He loves me exactly as I am because I’m covered with His Son’s blood. He sees me as righteous, perfect, forgiven. When the time comes for me to go Home I expect to be wearing my luscious Heavenly robes. Color coordinated. With fabulous shoes. 

Until next time, may you be blessed by God’s tender mercies. 

Jann (Sherry’s sister)