Here's the thing:

I've never been a feminine woman.I cringe when I think about the extent that I went to in college to fit in with the Southern girls. I spent money on clothes. I lost weight in entirely unsafe ways. I flirted and primped and practiced my walk. I, oh God, joined a sorority. Granted, it was the agriculture sorority and not exactly filled with fashion plates, but still. I wonder now what people must have thought of me. I figure that it was somewhere along the lines of, "Who is that drag queen and where did she buy that awful lipstick?"
And after all that, it didn't stick. As soon as I got into medical school, I got bsy and the backslide began until I find myself here. All I have to show for those years is a cringe-inducing set of memories and a tendency to avoid Wranglers.
In the course of a day, I frequently get mistaken for a nurse, social worker or the girl who brings lunch. Seriously? I'm wearing a white coat, stethoscope and patently not carrying a tray of food. I just asked you intimate details about your bowel movements- which, by the by, you answered. Somehow, these social cues escape most people's attention.
Interestingly, it's usually the women, and not necessarily older women, who assume that I cannot possibly have made it through the requisite schooling to be their physician. The breasts, you know- they prevent your arms from moving far enough toward midline to dissect things or read books.
Not that I disagree. I frequently wonder how I ended up with other people's life or death decisions on my hands. I have trouble getting dressed and making to my car without a near-fatal accident. I almost brained myself on the coffee table this morning because I tripped over the hem of the pants that I just bought on sale and swore that I would shorten before wearing them to work.
It's a never-ending gauntlet to be a woman doctor. Especially one who's hair resolutely refuses to go grey. Not that I want to get old, but it would be nice not to have the following conversation four times a day:
Me: Good morning! I'm Dr. Smith.
Patient: Hi. When did you say the doctor was coming in?
Me: I am your doctor. Dr. Smith. It's on my badge and everything.
Patient: Oh! Sorry. You just look so young. How old are you?
Me: Older than I look.
Patient: They just keep getting younger, don't they Bob?
Bob: Yup. They just keep getting younger. How old did you say you are, sweetheart?
Me: Old enough to be your doctor. How about that rectal bleeding you've been having? That topic sounds significantly less uncomfortable than this conversation.
If there's one thing that I hate more than the joke about asking their grandson to prom, it's being called sweetheart. I don't look like a sweetheart. I don't act like a sweetheart. Calling me sweetheart is only acceptable when used ironically. Unfortunately, in this area of the country, there is apparently a rash of incurable ironopenia.
The truth of the matter is that people don't want to admit that they are sexist and assume without thinking that doctors are big, manly men and nurses are women. I thought, going into this whole thing, that my inability to dress myself and total lack of makeup or hairspray would cancel out that big, fat assumption.
I am proven wrong every day.