Last week, sniffling and certain that I might perish at any moment, I made an appointment with my doctor. I am an impatient person. This is why I make appointments when seeing my physician. I assume he will stick to a schedule and I will enter and exit, with a prescription in hand, within fifteen minutes. A nice, compact, amount of time.

This time I was left waiting. Children screamed and people who may be as impatient as I am moved their legs up and down rapidly. Everyone made a socially concerted effort not to look at each other.

I decided to settle in and read. At the rate the room was moving — sort of like a turnover rate at a bad job — it was clear I had at least 30 minutes longer to wait.

I have always found ‘literature’ in doctors’ offices disconcerting, though equally fascinating. After all, where can you find a magazine on parenting (a beautiful woman is holding a golden-haired toddler) and a celebrity magazine (apparently, Angelina Jolie has adopted five children from Nigeria) sitting side by side?

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