Most normal people dislike waiting rooms. They’re usually filled with sick people, uncomfortable chairs and old magazines. None of which most normal people enjoy.
But I’m not normal. I love waiting rooms. I’ve found them to be one of the most entertaining places to watch people and how they respond to awkward situations.
My favorite of all awkward waiting room situations has to do with TVs. The idea behind putting television sets in waiting rooms was a good one—to distract people from how long they are waiting. But the problem with televisions in waiting rooms, though, has to do with what channel they’re tuned to.
Somehow the television at my OB/GYN’s office seems to frequently get turned to ESPN or a hunting and fishing show. Sports and Things To Kill, yet no men in sight. Still, the bored-looking women will politely tolerate the show rather than risk changing the channel and possibly offending someone who might actually be watching.
The last time I was there, the only offspring in the room were still in utero, yet the channel was tuned to the Wiggles. Several women distracted themselves by flipping through wrinkled and dog-eared magazines while others attempted to hold conversations between “Hot potato, hot po-ta-to,” but most sat in resignation, staring blankly at the set as the colorful quartet bounced and twisted about with artificial glee.
Knowing my name was next to be called, I finally stood and walked to the set and changed the channel. To ESPN.
There’s another waiting room situation I like to observe that has to do with where to sit. I expect most know the feeling of walking into a room and noting where everyone is sitting, what they are doing, and where the gaps of empty seats are. There’s seems to be an unspoken rule with regard to allowing others their space, which accounts for the empty chairs left between those waiting to be seen. Eventually, though, many of the chairs will be filled, and the new arrivals must decide whose space to impose upon.
When I find myself in that situation, I choose the seat next to the person talking on a cell phone, as that’s generally proven good for a chuckle or two. Since I seem destined to forever be exposed to cell phone users speaking loudly, I’ve learned how to entertain myself by making assumptions about the other half of the conversation, the part I don’t hear.
For instance, I was recently seated next to a woman talking loudly on her cell phone about her horrible mother-in-law. After a particularly long and ugly tirade, the person on the other end of the line said something that caused Loud Talker to exclaim, “You’d do that for me? That’s wonderful! Oh no, that’s not too much to ask. I’ll stop and pick some up on my way home from work.”
That’s where my desperate-for-entertainment imagination took over, building elaborately onto those mother-in-law complaints until I was convinced the person she was talking to had promised to do away with the mother-in-law if Loud Talker would stop and pick up some lime to help keep down the smell.
Yeah, I know. I’m not normal. But I’m not often bored either.
There are certain waiting rooms I look forward to spending time in more than others. For instance, the waiting rooms of both the OB/GYN and the veterinarian have proven to be far more entertaining conversation-wise than others. And strangely, the conversations in both are often quite similar.
“Looks like you’ve had some success breeding.”
“Yeah, he’s a real hound dog. I need to get him fixed.”
“What a cute little ankle-biter. Is he housebroken?”
The only part I truly dread about the whole doctor’s waiting room experience is when my name is called to go back and I’m taken to a room and directed to change into a backless, thin gown and have a seat because, “The doctor will be with you in a minute.” Shivering on the crunchy white paper that covers the table, waiting for that “minute” to pass, I soon become so desperate for reading material that I turn to the posters and brochures thoughtfully provided by pharmaceutical sales reps. After those have been read, paranoia sets in. I become more and more certain I’ve been forgotten, that the place has closed up and all have gone home.
Just as I’m nearing the point of venturing into the hall in my gown, I’ll hear the doctor’s voice by my door, and know all will be well. Once in a while–I think just for kicks–he’ll tell me I’m normal.
But I know I’m not.
