Yesterday I was at a red light that kept me waiting for three full minutes. As in one hundred and eighty seconds. I was indignant. I watched the stream of cars swish by that had no regard for my time table. Later in the day I remembered it as a detail but I could not actually find a three minute chunk shaved out of my quota of living. 

Last week I took Benjamin for routine blood work, for which we had an appointment I might add. After forty minutes he began to voice his irritation. I decided not to shush him. Perhaps the escalating noise would move us up the queue. Eventually we were called and the nurse handled him with both respect and calm, which is not always easy when the patient you are about to stab with a sharp needle is flapping and showing his teeth.

On Saturday I called the sewing machine store about the Bernina I reluctantly brought in for repairs three weeks ago. They had said it would be ready in ten days to two weeks. I inquired whether I could pick it up. But the service person sounded surprised. 

"Oh, here is the order on the board. I guess I missed it. I was supposed to call with the estimate before I ordered the part."

If I was a screamer I would have. He had not even ordered the part?? I rehearsed the ornery complaint I would file when I picked it up after another two weeks of gazing at the empty spot where Bernie usually sits. Well, not so much time gazing, as I have used one of my other four machines in her absence. I would leave out that detail in my piercing reprimand.

I suppose the igniting factor in my resentment is entitlement. I am entitled to a brief delay at an intersection. I deserve to be served promptly at a lab. My machine should take precedence over the other tasks some mechanic with George monogrammed on his blue shirt has on his workbench. 

Or do I? 

I am not a commuter in New York City or Bombay but I have an inkling that a three minute wait on a Monday morning would feel like a cause for whistling show tunes. 

As I watched the clock in the waiting room today, I occasionally looked up to notice that other waiters had lives too, complete with valid reasons to be served. One woman in a hijab was expressing her distress to the receptionist about being late for work. When the technician went to check for an empty cubicle, she bowed her head and prayed. I did not know her name or circumstances, but suddenly I made room for her on my planet. Another woman was waiting with her frail mother, and her wiggly little boy. Perhaps her day could use a short wait too. I gave passing remembrance to articles I have read about the scarcity of good medical care in Nigeria.

I may even soften enough to skip the mental tirade when I pick up my Bernina. I am not yet amnesiac enough to forget that there was a time when I believed that owning one was a luxury out of reach on my budget.