They say patience is a virtue, but the older I get, the more it feels like a punishment. These days, it’s not just waiting at the 4doctor’s office—it’s everywhere. And I’m tired of pretending it doesn’t drive me nuts.
I don’t know when it happened exactly, but somewhere along the line, waiting stopped being mildly annoying and started feeling downright infuriating. Maybe it’s because I’ve done so much of it. Or maybe it’s because I’ve reached the point in life where I realize—bluntly—I don’t have unlimited time left to waste.
Take this week, for example. I had an appointment with a doctor who’s supposed to be managing my care. I showed up on time. Early, actually, because if you’re even a minute late, they’ll cancel your appointment and make you start the whole circus over. But after sitting in the waiting room for 45 minutes, then being shuttled into an exam room to wait another 90, I felt my blood pressure climbing right alongside my frustration. My time may not be billable like theirs is, but it’s still mine. And it’s precious.
But this isn’t just about healthcare. Waiting has wormed its way into every part of daily life.
Let’s talk about the telephone. I’ll call a clinic, a business, or worse—an insurance company—and spend half my morning trapped in a robotic phone maze, pressing numbers like I’m trying to unlock a secret passage. Then I’m told my “estimated wait time is 47 minutes”—and I’m expected to just sit there and accept that? I get stuck listening to music that sounds like it was written by a committee of malfunctioning wind chimes, interrupted by a syrupy voice assuring me how “important” my call is. Funny, it sure doesn’t feel important.
Or how about waiting for a response to a message? In this age of instant everything, why does it still take people forever to text back? I know they saw it. Their phone is basically an extension of their arm. I’m not asking for poetry—just a simple reply. But no. I end up refreshing my screen like it’s a slot machine, hoping for a jackpot of acknowledgment. Ghosting has become a way of life. It’s not just for bad dates anymore—it’s how businesses run, how friends communicate, and how basic human decency seems to function.
And then there’s restaurants. I don’t expect five-star service at a Friday night fish fry, but when I make a reservation for 6:00 and it’s pushing 6:25 and I’m still standing in the entryway holding one of those blinking coasters like I’m waiting for my parole hearing, I start to unravel. We finally get seated, and another geological era passes before someone brings water. Try asking how much longer the food will be and you’ll get a look like you just insulted their grandmother. Meanwhile, I’m trying to time my insulin, stave off a headache, and make it through the evening without fainting from hunger. I came to enjoy a meal, not reenact a survival show.
The truth is, when I was younger, I could wait. I did it all the time without thinking. I waited for weekends. I waited for the kids to grow up. I waited for paychecks, test results, vacations. Time felt endless. But now? Not so much. These days, waiting feels heavier—more like a loss than a pause. Every hour I spend cooling my heels feels like time I can’t get back.
And it’s not just about being irritated. It’s about energy. I don’t have an unlimited well of it anymore. Living with chronic pain and limited mobility means everything takes effort—getting dressed, going out, showing up. When I make that effort and then spend half the day waiting, it wears me down. Physically, emotionally, mentally. And honestly? It chips away at my good mood.
I know I’m not the only one who feels this way. I’ve seen the same look on the faces of other older folks waiting their turn, checking their watches, shifting in their seats. There’s a quiet impatience growing in all of us—because we know time is slipping through our fingers, and we’re tired of spending it in someone else’s holding pattern.
So no, I don’t want to “just wait a few more minutes.” I’ve waited enough. We all have. And it’s time someone started valuing our time like we do.
