Waiting

Today is about waiting rooms.

I am in a waiting room, waiting.

The doctor whose waiting room I'm sitting in has gone to some effort to make me comfortable. I appreciate the effort.

The Road to Shambala is playing on the oldies station.

I like this song but wouldn't ever seek it out. I'm almost glad to sit here and wait. 

Earlier today, I waited for my daughter at the orthodontist. The orthodontist tries to appeal to his clientele who are between the ages of 12-18. The music that plays in his waiting room makes waiting less fun. 

Later today I'll sit and wait for my elderly mother while she sees her doctor. Mom's doctor should play music in her waiting room, maybe some Elvis or Sinatra for the old waiting people. I don't recall there being any music piped in to keep the old folks calm and happy. All I recollect hearing at Mom's doctor's office is shuffling, sniffling, the occasional dry cough and the flipping of magazine pages.

But for now, I am here, waiting for my own doctor, listening to the oldies station.

I am sitting  an over-stuffed black leather wing back chair. The chair is slick and I slide around. If I slide my self  all the way to the back of the chair in order to sit up straight, my stubby legs do not quite touch the ground, so I lean back and slide myself forward. My feet touch the ground but the rest of me reclines awkwardly. This pose does nothing for my double chin. I'm glad I'm alone in the waiting room. Next to my slick black chair is a huge equally slick looking black leather couch.

In front of the shiny black couch sits an ugly glass topped coffee table.

On the ugly glass topped coffee table sits an equally ugly ceramic boot full of artificial pink and yellow flowers, which are also ugly.

The Road to Shambala is over.

Jingles telling me to do business with some local schmoes start to play. The sound of these local ads grates on my nerves. I have no idea what they're trying to get me to buy or where they want me to shop. I'd give my left nut to hear the crap music that was playing in the orthodontist waiting room. I do not have a left nut, or even a right nut, but I'd be  willing to part with an ovary to make these shitty jingles stop.

A faux Colonial primitive picture with all the traditional primitive Colonial motifs so it won't be lost on the casual observer that this is a primitive Colonial piece, hangs opposite where I am awkwardly reclining.

The picture includes a blue star, two weeping willows, a red brick house, two crows in silhouette, a pineapple, and a sheep. The word Simplify is stenciled over the crows. The person who made this thing might have taken their own advice, but no.

The creator of this picture forgot to include the classic stylized Colonial brick-red heart. To remember the sheep and the pineapple but forget the heart, that's crazy.  

Perhaps the key to simplicity is forgetting the heart. This makes me sad.

On another wall hangs a clock. Next to the clock hangs a seascape in oranges and pinks. It would be pretty if it didn't evoke Thomas Kinkade. The only thing missing is a quaint thatched cottage floating in the glistening surf.

I look at the ugly ceramic boot with the ugly flowers again.

It's so ugly it makes me mad.

Just then a door opens, the doctor can see me now.

As I slip and slide my way out of the chair, a John Cougar Mellencamp "ditty" begins to play. The word "ditty" is a travesty, the song gives me hives and makes me wretch.

I hate this song more than I hate the ugly boot vase and ugly flowers.

I am grateful to walk into the doctor's exam room, grateful when she closes the door behind me.