My dad’s a psychiatrist. Ever since I can remember, I would always see pieces of paper laying around the house in a certain configuration: 8.5×11 inch sheets, folded length-wise and width-wise, with a pen clipped to the top. I always found this to be an incredibly strange thing to have with you at all times–one might be in our computer room where he often works, whereas another might be next to his nightstand; you could probably find at least one or two more on the dining room table, where he unloads his pockets after work.

Now, of course, I find myself taking blank pieces of paper, folding them length-wise and width-wise, and then clipping a pen to the top. I don’t think I ever really noticed myself doing this until I started reminding myself of my father. The secret? You always need to be carrying a piece of paper and something to write with, and it’s the best configuration to get it to fit nicely into a shirt pocket. Even when I’m scrubbed in on a case, I keep the paper in my chest pocket for after the case.

So just to clear things up–you’re not a weirdo, dad. Just a doctor. (Okay, maybe you’re still a weirdo, but not for the paper-folding reason anymore.)

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