He comes much too close for comfort. There are times when I can feel his breath on the back of my neck, and I struggle not to shudder. He is, in a sense, my “boss” for the next few weeks. So I try to keep the look of disgust off my face when I see him. It’s quite an effort.
And it’s not really him. It’s more the idea of him. I’ve always had issues with older men in authority positions. There’s a creepiness to it all, being the only girl in the company of older men. I try hard to maintain some asexuality—big ill-fitting misshapened scrubs, ugly shoes, glasses, no makeup. I stand further away, leaning against the wall, clipboard hugged to my chest. Corners were made for me.
Once, we walked passed a mirror, the group of us. The surgeons towered, each over six foot tall, lumbering and hulking. I tried frantically to catch up, seemingly shrinking smaller and smaller as they went on. In the operating room, I drown in a sterile blue one-size-fits-all scrub gown. My gloves are size 6. I’ve never met anyone who wore a size 5 1/2. I was just not made for surgery.
And so I’ve try to stay out of the way. But he always comes too close.
