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I sat down in the nondescript seat. It’s funny how every waiting room has three constants.
A single TV in the corner whose volume is too low and whose channel never changes. That same plant: Is it real, or is it fake? And the stack of magazines from who-knows-what-year.
Whether you’re in a hospital or a tire shop, you wait among this triad.
Which makes it curious that in my most recent waiting room experience, I got something I didn’t expect.
I learned about two women’s wedding days. An upcoming adventure. And why I shouldn’t bite my fingernails.
Let’s get one thing straight: There’s a lost art in waiting. And now I want to get it back.
Waiting rooms are almost designed to inflict boredom. At best, they represent a moment before you can get back to life and, at worst, a moment before something very unpleasant happens.
As a kid, I had to go to the doctor’s office once a week for an allergy shot. And though it was a very simple visit, the office was rarely prompt. My mom and I were usually stuck in that waiting room for a good while.
For the amount of time we spent in that space, I remember precious little. I can recall scribbling away at homework assignments. One moment does stand out: my mom explaining that Google would soon make its stock available to the public. She thought it would be a good investment.
But aside from the idle talk we have with those we know, waiting rooms also gather us together with strangers. Chance conversations here can open a brief, but clear, window into someone else’s life.
This happened to me a couple of weeks ago. I was sitting there in my nondescript seat, looking at my phone, while two women spoke to each other. They were both probably in their late 70s, one Black, one white.
Suddenly, I heard a comment directed at me. “Stop biting those nails!”
I looked across the room, and the Black woman’s eyes were locked on me.
“I’ll stop,” I said. “Thanks for keeping me honest.”
“You know you’re doin’ damage, baby. You don’t even know the damage.”
For the remainder of my time there, I left my phone on my lap and took in the conversation. A lot unfolded in the span of a couple of minutes.
The women were swapping wedding stories when I tuned in. The white lady sounded wistful as she recalled, so many years ago, standing at the top of the aisle arm-in-arm with her father. It was a beautiful day, she said, and the ceremony was outside at the New Orleans Botanical Garden. The music started to play, and at the last moment, she grabbed her mother with her free arm.
“I just grabbed her,” she said, as if she were still surprised by it. “I felt it wouldn't have been right to leave her out. And I think about it every day. I'm so glad I made that decision. I will never forget it.”
The other woman, it turned out, had also walked down the aisle with her mother and father. It was shocking, they agreed, that they shared that experience, given the tradition at the time.
I sat back and didn’t say a thing. The Black woman got called back but not before she could get in a little bit of her Easter plans.
The remaining lady turned to me, now determined to keep speaking.
“Oh,” she mused. “I’ve been telling everyone lately. Do you know that I'll be going to China with my husband next month?”
“That sounds amazing,” I said.
The door opened again, and the nurse called her name. As she drifted away, she kept speaking to me. She’d be there for three weeks. She couldn’t wait to explore.
“Isn’t that something? Someone my age going all the way to China?”
And the door closed behind her.
For the duration of my doctor’s visit, and even after, I wondered what her plans might be in China. What did she intend to see? What was she looking forward to eating?
She’d invited me into her story for a moment, and now I wanted to know the whole thing. But the truth is, I’ll never see her again.
It’s hard for me to remember the last time an encounter with a total stranger stayed with me so vividly.
There was one time I was waiting in the Chicago airport, and I connected with a barstool neighbor over the Cubs, starting a professional life, and the burdens of family.
And I can remember, going even further back, a woman next to me on the plane who told me that she wished her son dressed the way I did (reader: I now wear Lululemon pants on most flights).
At the time, I couldn’t wait to get out of these conversations and on to my plans. But now I can’t help but wonder what I missed out on.
Next time I’m locked in my phone, I hope someone tells me to stop biting my nails.