The receptionist is new and screamingly funny. She and I have developed a rapport to the extent she calls me Ranney Girl. I don’t think anyone has ever called me Ranney Girl. I’ve been Miss K, Miss Karen, K-Bear, The Divine Miss R, but never Ranney Girl. I kinda like it.
The last time I was there, they were behind. The waiting room was full, the receptionist was stressed, and I just shrugged and took a seat in the corner and pulled out my Kindle.
A woman came in, sat down beside me and proceeded to bitch, moan, and complain. She was facing away from me, for which I was again exceedingly grateful because I was not inclined to join in her bitchfest. Let’s face it, doctors’ offices are not pleasant places. People are sick, doctors are busy, and sometimes, like that day, everything is running behind.
But she made the whole waiting room privy to her bitching.
“I have to be in Bastrop by 2:30.”
“I’ve been here an hour. What’s taking so long?”
“I think I hate San Antonio.”
“Their magazines suck.”
I’m a pretty mellow person. I don’t like going to the doctor, but I do and I grin and bear it. I really didn’t want to be there on that day because one of the medications I was taking was making me sick. I was this close to leaning over and pinching the woman’s head off when, thankfully, she entered into a conversation with a man on the other side of the waiting room about the route to Bastrop. So, for the next seven minutes all of us listened while she complained about the traffic.
I wonder what people who are so vocally unhappy think about their behavior. Do they think that their complaints make the situation better? Did this woman believe that she was the only one inconvenienced? Do they even think about other people at all?
I couldn’t help but wonder what her experience would have been like if she’d turned it around just a little bit. Maybe joked about the magazines, found something to do with her time like watching the news, or even counted the cars in the parking lot. Something other than burden everyone else with her irritation.
I forgot who said it, but anger isn’t like a cookie. When I give you a cookie, I have one less cookie, but when I give you my anger, now you have it and I still have it, too.
What do you think? What do you do when you encounter someone like this?