Waiting Game

by Brendan Smith
Weirs Times Editor

A few weeks back, I was in the waiting room at my doctor’s office. It was a busy afternoon with about nine other folks trying to pass the time waiting for their name to be called. I usually bring my small notebook with me to write down observations I’ve made during the day.
Two older ladies, who it appeared hadn’t seen each other for a while, were catching up on a few things.
I try hard not to listen to other’s conversations, but like most humans, I usually fail at the attempt. It was especially hard in this instance since they weren’t even trying to keep their voices at an indiscreet level. In fact, they may as well have been talking to each other sitting on opposite sides of a subway car in motion.
Of course, I wasn’t the only one listening while pretending to be doing something else (in this case, writing notes about the whole experience for use in a future column). Others in the waiting room were also trying to show a lack of interest in their conversation. But as far as waiting room diversions went, their conversation took center stage.
A few stared at the silent TV, the captions of some news story a great diversion for the eyes. Others thumbed through old magazines about gardening and cars (the mailing addresses blacked out). One gentleman sitting next to the two ladies, had a copy of the local paper open in front of him, staring at it intently. I noticed that he didn’t even turn a page.
Everyone was trying hard not to listen but was failing miserably.
The ladies were not shy about expressing their opinions about everything from politics to various acquaintances who may have even had relatives who were in the waiting room, not that it would have mattered to them.
I found out things about both. For example, one of them was pretty enamored of the Geico commercials and the other was not enjoying wine as much as she used to (and she used to a lot as she made clear).
Their conversation turned to talk about a gentleman they both knew. They weren’t exactly enamored of this individual and had a few off-color, hilarious to them, things to say about him.
One comment in particular about this gentleman that caught my attention was when one woman looked at the other and said: “You know he is eighty-one but he looks like he is seventy-three.” The other woman said nothing but blew air through her lips in a sound of disgust as she rolled her eyes.
It was at that moment that one of the women was called in for her appointment and the show came to a screeching halt. We all went back to staring at the TV, writing in notebooks and flipping through magazines and newspapers.
Everything went back to waiting room normal.
Still, the words of that last statement were buzzing around in my head – looked seventy-three?
It was such a random number. What exactly does seventy-three look like? Does it look different from seventy or seventy-five? What should he look like at eighty-one that he didn’t look like?
I looked around the room, trying not to catch anyone’s eye directly according to waiting room etiquette (the rules of which there are too many to list here, maybe a future column). I was trying to guess the ages of the others waiting. I got a few sixties, a couple of forties and one fifty. Not once did a sixty-two, a forty-four or a fifty-six come to mind. Even the remaining Chatty Cathy, now staring at the TV screen, polled at about eighty in my mind, no eighty-one or two.
Being who I am, the thought of this random number stayed in my mind. Eventually I was called for my appointment and continued on with my day.
Today I am in the waiting room again. It’s all pretty normal. Nothing out of the ordinary to disrupt the standard boredom of the experience. It is close to deadline time for this week’s paper, so I pulled out my handy small notebook, looking for inspiration, and saw the notes on my last waiting room visit.
So, I spent my waiting room sentence writing about that experience. The “seventy-three” thing still gestating around in my thoughts.
So, I thought I’d share it, for whatever its worth. Maybe give you something to think about the next time you are in the doctor’s waiting room. Or maybe you are there right now.
That’s all I’ve got.
See you next week.

Brendan is the author of “The Flatlander Chronicles” and
“Best Of A F.O.O.L. In New Hampshire” available on his website
BrendanTSmith.com

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