I've
reached an age where I'm relatively secure. I don't mean financial
security. I don't mean physical security. I mean the security that comes
from having been around the block more than a couple of times. It's the
experience of maturity, the maturity that comes from nothing more than
the accumulation of years. As such, with all this maturity, all this
security, you'd think that not much would bother me. And yet, and yet it
simply drives me up the wall that with all my maturity and security I
can be so intimidated, so frustrated, so driven to distraction by
certain, seemingly trivial but, to me, momentous happenings. They are
the happenings for which I have no answer to the questions they raise.
For instance, here's a question I need to ponder. When I make a trip to the doctor's office for an appointment why do I hang around so long? Let's say the appointment is at 10:30 in the morning. At 11:00 I'm still sitting in the lobby trying to maintain my attention on the magazine article I'm reading while not paying attention to the toddler that's toddling about. Why in all my living have I never asked the doctor what would be an appropriate time to remain in that lobby before charging for my presence?
Why, once I'm out of the lobby and in the exam room, after having been weighed and blood pressured, do I then pleasantly tell the nurse what medications I am taking, all of which were prescribed by the doctor and all of which are recorded in the folder she's holding?
Why, as she leaves the room stating, “The doctor will be here in just a moment,” do I believe her just like I did the last time?
I'm not a slow reader. I'm not the fastest in the world, but I do read a lot and that by itself makes me no slouch at absorbing the content of a news magazine. Why do I always forget to bring a briefcase full of reading material to the exam room? After all, when one sits in the exam room for over an hour-and-a-half even a slow reader can master the two copies of the outdated news magazine available.
Why do I, after reading the magazines, count the tiles in the ceiling of the exam room? There's no point in counting them. It's the same number of tiles that were in the ceiling the last time I was here and waiting the long wait. In fact, it's the same number of tiles that are in the exam room across the hall where I waited the time before last.
Well, the magazines are read; the ceiling tiles are counted. Now, I've pulled out this laptop and am writing this blog. You may wonder why my doctor is so prominent in the musings of this epistle today. I don't know why. For some reason he's just on my mind.
Why am I sitting here? I could run out to lunch and get back before he shows.
But I have to admit, even after all this time, the reading, the ceiling tile counting, and now this column, I have to admire that doc. I admire him because I'm still sitting here. I admire him because if I made my church members sit in the pew this long they'd walk out. That's it. I'm powering down the laptop. I'm leaving.
“Oh, hello, doctor.”
For instance, here's a question I need to ponder. When I make a trip to the doctor's office for an appointment why do I hang around so long? Let's say the appointment is at 10:30 in the morning. At 11:00 I'm still sitting in the lobby trying to maintain my attention on the magazine article I'm reading while not paying attention to the toddler that's toddling about. Why in all my living have I never asked the doctor what would be an appropriate time to remain in that lobby before charging for my presence?
Why, once I'm out of the lobby and in the exam room, after having been weighed and blood pressured, do I then pleasantly tell the nurse what medications I am taking, all of which were prescribed by the doctor and all of which are recorded in the folder she's holding?
Why, as she leaves the room stating, “The doctor will be here in just a moment,” do I believe her just like I did the last time?
I'm not a slow reader. I'm not the fastest in the world, but I do read a lot and that by itself makes me no slouch at absorbing the content of a news magazine. Why do I always forget to bring a briefcase full of reading material to the exam room? After all, when one sits in the exam room for over an hour-and-a-half even a slow reader can master the two copies of the outdated news magazine available.
Why do I, after reading the magazines, count the tiles in the ceiling of the exam room? There's no point in counting them. It's the same number of tiles that were in the ceiling the last time I was here and waiting the long wait. In fact, it's the same number of tiles that are in the exam room across the hall where I waited the time before last.
Well, the magazines are read; the ceiling tiles are counted. Now, I've pulled out this laptop and am writing this blog. You may wonder why my doctor is so prominent in the musings of this epistle today. I don't know why. For some reason he's just on my mind.
Why am I sitting here? I could run out to lunch and get back before he shows.
But I have to admit, even after all this time, the reading, the ceiling tile counting, and now this column, I have to admire that doc. I admire him because I'm still sitting here. I admire him because if I made my church members sit in the pew this long they'd walk out. That's it. I'm powering down the laptop. I'm leaving.
“Oh, hello, doctor.”
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