Always Early, Always Forgotten
The other day, I became a statue in a chiropractor’s waiting room.
Not on purpose. It just happened.
I checked in early, like I always do. “Early” is my brand — it’s my toxic trait, my unpaid internship in punctuality. I slid into a chair by the side table stacked with glossy magazines. Not a single curled edge or coffee stain, everything polished like the waiting room had been curated by Architectural Digest’s intern who moonlights at Sephora.
It wasn’t a clinic lobby; it was a Wellness Boutique. You know the type: all white walls, calming waterfall soundtrack, and the faint whiff of eucalyptus that screams, We believe in healing your mind, body, and soul — for the low price of $79.99 a session, supplements not included.
Except here I was, statue-still, regular patron, no wine or crackers. Just a self-serve water station bragging: “Filtered water — good for your health.” Imagine a brag sign over the urinal: “Sterile water — great for your prostate!” Same vibe.
So I sat, politely trapped in my marble pose, waiting.
The Plant, My Comrade
The plant was my only company. Technically alive, very green, but suffering. Its leaves weren’t lush, they were reedy, thin — like it had crash-dieted for swimsuit season and then forgot to stop.
It screamed at me without words:
“Take me with you, pleeeease! They keep telling me I’m thriving in indirect light but I haven’t photosynthesized since Obama’s first term!”
We were both captives: me by politeness, the plant first by photosynthesis, then by diet culture.
Boutique of Healing (a.k.a Wellness Money Pit)
While I stayed in statue mode, the office hummed its sitcom without an audience. Phones rang. Mice clicked. Keyboards clacked. From behind the counter, the Ladies of Wellness™ played their small-talk improv game:
“Oh hiiiii! How was your trip?”
“So beautiful!”
“Just stunning!”
Each line delivered with the conviction of an understudy praying for Broadway.
Then came the sneeze. One sharp detonation behind the counter.
Like clockwork: six overlapping “Bless you!” ricocheted across the lobby in uneven bursts.
The sneezer sneezed again. Suddenly, it was the Bless-You Olympics.
- Bronze: the receptionist who whispered hers like a prayer.
- Silver: the one who doubled down with “Bless you, bless you!”
- Gold: the lady who practically shouted hers across the room like she was calling BINGO.
- Divine points tallied on an invisible scoreboard. I swear I saw halos flicker.
The plant and I remained unblessed.
Holistic Theater
In the Wellness Boutique, healing isn’t just about cracking spines. It’s a full-service spa of soul renovation. Shelves groaned with supplements, miracle powders, tinctures, all guaranteed to align your chakras while draining your checking account.
And then came the pièce de résistance: oxygen therapy.
Yes, oxygen. That thing in the air. Here, repackaged as premium enlightenment.
My snarky brain couldn’t resist. I pictured myself strapping on a dusty SCBA (self-contained breathing apparatus) from my garage, stomping through the lobby like a hazmat firefighter:
“Excuse me ladies, don’t mind me, just topping up my wellness quota, let’s crank this tank to Zen.”
Because clearly I’ve been inhaling budget oxygen at home all these years, when the real cure is to pay $60 to suck it in next to a salt lamp.
SMH.
Coffee still counts as a medical device.
Statue Breaks Free
When my acupuncturist finally fetched me (the one sane human in this circus, firmly in my corner for this cancer mess), I explained I’d been scheduled with the chiropractor first. Apparently the staff thought I preferred statue cosplay.
He tried to help. He talked to the manager. The manager talked to someone else. Voices bounced like pinballs while I stayed in lobby-marble mode. Upright statue now. Greek goddess of Waiting Rooms, patron saint of Filtered Water.
Eventually, apologies rolled in. The chiropractor apologized. The manager apologized. By my next visit, the front-desk ladies had upgraded me from statue to minor celebrity. Every wave was too enthusiastic, like I’d won a reality show for “Patient Most Likely to Sit Quietly Until Death.”
When I checked in, one leaned over and chirped:
“Oh, you’re early!”
I gave her the truth, deadpan, statue-stone:
“I’m always early. I’m just always forgotten.”
The plant nodded in solidarity. Or maybe it just drooped. Same thing.