You really become aware of the hours in the day, the days of your life and the years in a human life time in the waiting room of a doctor’s office. For reasons I have never understood, a waiting room always seems to have a clock that ticks extra loud, making you teasingly aware of all of the other things you could have done other than nodding off and reading six year old Elle magazines. My doctor takes an obscene amount of time for each patient, consequently causing her waiting hours to be an even more obscene average of 2,5 hours. I’ve brought books, music, hey I even considered bringing a picnic basket. However, I keep going back to her; this sweet older lady that walks around in a scruffy white coat, has mouse grey hair, a retro cat eye frame with thick glasses resting on the tip of her nose and beige woolen socks slipped into Birkenstocks. In other words, she’s the hippest woman in town. So once you do finally get into her office, it’s pure theatre. She always asks how work is going – even if she doesn’t know what you do and keeps asking questions that are completely unrelated, she always gets up at unexpected moments to look for something in her 1940s cabinets but after going through drawer after drawer permanently forgets what she was looking for, and she always, at one point during the conversation, stands up, rests her hand on her hips and with narrowed eyes and an shy smile says she doesn’t have an explanation for my ongoing shoulder pains for the past ten days. Call me crazy, but for that I am willing to wait and hear the seconds of my life pass me by.