I should have gone more prepared.
Nobody likes waiting rooms. There are very few pleasant waiting rooms in a real world. This we learn. You do what you have to do.
My windshield had mysteriously developed a crack, right at the top, on the driver's side. Like, overnight. Where the hell did THAT come from!
That was two weeks ago. Today I found myself in a small, cramped, dark, ugly, smelly, noisy, depressing waiting room of a local windshield repair establishment. The seats were small, uncomfortable, and arranged in a sad little L-shaped circle, parked in front of a smallish TV, The Weather Channel playing over and over and over ad nauseum. Try watching The Weather Channel for almost two solid hours straight, nothing but overly dramatic weather forecasters, one after the other, repeating the gloomiest and doomiest weather across our nation...over...and over...and over...Cheerful stuff.
I THOUGHT I'd come prepared. I'd brought my Kindle. I'd eaten a small protein snack before leaving the office, not hungry at the time and thinking it would hold me over until I got home after getting my windshield repaired. But as I sat in this small, dimly-lit depressing little room, the monotonous weather updates lulling me into a coma amid the bickering and yelling of the workers, I realized that trying to read to stay occupied wasn't working. I felt myself slumping further and further down into my very uncomfortable chair.
And then the hungries hit. Oh.my.goodness. I was suddenly starving. Of course there were no vending machines. Zero. Nadda. A sad little bowl of peppermints. Slim pickings.
To make my stay even more pleasant, there were two restrooms within a few feet of where the pitiful little row of chairs were arranged, like, we're talking maybe six feet away. A little too close for comfort? Oh, yeah. I lost count of the number of times these greasy, tatoo-covered workers in the garage bays paraded in and out of the bathroom. They sure did. I was shocked and amazed. What? Are you having intestinal distress? Kidney issues? Should someone call a doctor? Of those who were in and out, you could safely assume bladder relief.
(But I thought only women had to make trips that often.) Others? Well, let's just say they camped.
(Please, God, not again.) This went on and on and on, the endless parade to the restrooms. Don't dwell on it. You'd think that would have taken care of my appetite. It worked, but only temporarily.
I began to hallucinate, seeing mirages of pizza. It dawned on me that I probably wasn't really hungry, but that it was exhaustion masquerading as hunger. And there I was, stuck in this dreadful waiting room, way too close to the restrooms, not in the best of company, no one to talk to to distract me, and no idea when I'd be set free.
I tried thumbing through outdated magazines, none of which interested me. I checked emails on my cell phone. No matter what I tried, I kept getting sleepier...and hungrier...and sleepier...and on and on and on, enduring this torturous wait, trying to recall a time when I was more bored, more hungry, more annoyed, more exhausted.
Finally, one of the little short, greasy, ear-pierced, tatoo-covered workers came to announce that my car was ready. I could go. I promptly thanked the little man, paid my bill, and hauled ass out of there.
Just get me home. Just drive. Drive! Home.Sweet.Home.
Thank God tomorrow is Friday.
Just going through the motions. Life can be like that at times. Hanging on, waiting out the storms that rage beneath the surface. The quest for ... for ... what? Taming the entanglement...one day chasing the next.
