Waiting rooms

There are many poems, stories, and movie scenes set in waiting rooms. The waiting room in America, like the queue in England, is, it seems, the perfect metaphor for contemporary life. And, as a friend recently told me, since we are no longer comfortable with idleness, waiting rooms signify the state of limbo and the pain of our discomfort with ourselves. So, I am in a waiting room now, computer in my lap, ipod buds in my ears, cell phone at my side. One man is flipping through a magazine and another man reads his bible. I was told I have three hours to wait. What do I do with three hours without a car? How do I "occupy" myself?

It occurs to me that no matter how trite, the metaphor sticks. That while I attempt to live here and now, I am always waiting for the next step: the car to be fixed, graduation, the next job, the next house, the next child, retirement, vacation, and, of course, death. All I really have is the waiting rooms. And the pain of it is my own unease. I don't like the gray ceramic tiles, the silly television show, the not-so-plush chairs.

Maybe, though, it has nothing at all to do with my surroundings. Maybe I don't like other people to know that I must wait. Maybe I should walk across the street to a little restaurant and pretend that I'm not waiting. Why do I care what these people think? I'm not sure that I do. I think really, if I'm honest, I'll say that I don't like limbo -- I don't like being "unproductive."

While I have spent much of the last year scrutinizing my husband's need to hold onto his job, I have not really looked closely at the same desire in myself. While my needs are not as attached to money as his are, my drive is just as strong: the same old protestant work ethic rages in me.

So, I have two hours and forty five minutes left to experiment with myself, and I'm going to sign off now. Maybe I'll learn something.