The first time I went to the doctor after the pandemic hit, the line outside the clinic reminded me so much of the airport TSA line that I felt guilty not removing my shoes. They took my temperature, told me to wash my hands, and gave me a hall pass. When I arrived at the doctor’s office I was asked for a photo ID. We had a good chuckle as I pointed out that I’d never been identified by my eyebrows before, and I was allowed to take a seat in the waiting area.
I shook off the surreal nature of the previous fifteen minutes and settled in to read my book. Two pages later, they called my name.
Now life not only felt surreal—I’ve never been called into an appointment on time—but also painful. Here was yet another thing the pandemic has taken from me, time to read without guilt. The years I have spent in waiting rooms have been made tolerable by bringing a fun book to read, a guilty pleasure moment in an otherwise run-run-run day.
Then I thought of all the other stolen moments for books that were gone. With far less traveling in my future, there’s less time to read—not while waiting for the plane, not while waiting for my pretzels and weak tea, not while waiting for my luggage. I’ll also miss the fun of finding a treasure in the airport bookstore, or at least a magazine I normally wouldn’t buy.
I guess my only recourse is to actually add reading time to my daily to-do list. After all, if it’s on the schedule I can’t feel guilty about it, right?