My lack of patience must be genetic or something, because there is no real clear reason for it. It is such a character flaw, that it has to be inherited. Certainly someone in my family tree coined the phrases, “Are we there yet?” and “How much longer?”
Oh sure, I can wait for bread dough to rise. I can sort of wait for the first layer of paint to dry. A wet floor – sure, I can wait – especially if I am the one who mopped it. Waiting on a robust cup of coffee – no problem. I’ll even patiently wait for a good cup of tea to steep.
Normally, I have my knitting with me, a dual project of trying to keep my nerves calm and to get lost in time. But seriously, you can’t really knit when you are constantly interrupted.
“May I see your insurance card?”
“Ma’am, can you sign this?”
Not only do I have to sit and wait, I am constantly interrupted while I do so.
This is how last evening went for me: I find out at 5 p.m. via a panicked text from my darling teenage daughter that she HAS to have a sports physical for cheer. Today. Sports registration is tomorrow.
“But mom, know one knew it!”
Apparently, this is the year that the district is enforcing registration. And she was right - I got the email – today was registration.
So, right after practice at 7:15 p.m., off we go to an Urgent Care that offers sport physicals. And, bonus, “We’re not busy right now, so it’s a great time to come in!” says the perky receptionist.
Ten minutes and several reams paper – in the tiniest of print ever – we are ready! Woot – she can get her physical and we’re outta here!
Except that, in the time it takes me to deliver the paperwork to the front counter, sit down, go back up with my ID, sit down, and run back to the counter to sign something, sit down, and bring my credit card and swipe it, someone comes in to the Urgent Care, and she needs stitches.
Luck is also a genetic trait I inherited.
To pacify me, they stuck us in an exam room to wait it out. Maybe that is the front desk’s way of making one feel like they have progressed in the Waiting Game.
Looking around the a-typical exam room, I strolled down memory lane, remembering comforting my little girl during well-baby checks. Such a bland, sterile environment that is creepy. Back in the day, I could usually calm her with a mass of cotton balls made into things.
Except, now, I was the one who needed the calming. My patience was pushed to the max. Was there really only one doctor in this clinic?
I leafed through a parenting magazine, looked up, and saw a box of exam gloves.
You know what happened next.
Giggling like a girl, I blew the glove up like a balloon, posed it and took photos of it modeling in the exam room.
And my darling daughter, why, she gave me the best compliment:
“I gotta hand it to you, Mom, that is pretty funny!”
© 2012 – Lynne Cobb