The Injustice of Waiting

The Injustice of Waiting

20 minutes.

I’ve run out of things to look at on my phone. I’ve exhausted every feed of every social media I am a part of. Even the ones I never look at. My phone battery is at 10 per cent.

25 minutes.

No one is texting me back. My boyfriend should be home from work by now, but he’s not texting me. Is everybody really just that busy? Apparently, I am the only loser sitting in a parking lot waiting for my mom.

30 minutes.

My eyes have officially glazed over. My body is entering a nap-like state. The theta waves are in full gear. I recline the car seat and give in.

33 minutes.

I wake up to the first ping. Finally, someone to keep me company. The more I text about my situation, the more it bothers me. There were so many things I was planning on doing tonight. Why did I agree to drive my parents here? I should’ve just stayed home.

45 minutes.

I can’t believe this. I’ve wasted 45 minutes here in the parking lot, just sitting in the car. This is disgusting. I had so many plans for tonight. I wanted to write. I wanted to read. I wanted to play my ukulele. I shouldn’t have to sit here after a long day at work. I deserved to stay in and do what I wanted. When she gets back in the car, I’m going to give her a piece of my mind.

55 minutes.

Still waiting. I’m just so tired of waiting. I don’t even care anymore.

59 minutes.

She raps on the window. I unlock the door and start the car. She starts to tell me all about the clinic. About the rooms and patients and all the wires. I can barely take in the words. She’s not even sorry for making me wait. As if she had any control over the situation in the first place.

In my lethargy, I doubt if I have a right to be upset. As much as I want to punish someone, there’s no one to blame.

What does it matter that I had to wait? I had no control. I had no choice. There are greater tragedies out there than waiting in a parking lot for an hour.

But it stills feels unjust.

 

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