Imagine waking up early to drive to a place over an hour away. Once there, you're greeted with stark walls, grey furniture, and the smell of exhaust. You're told it will be at least four more hours before you can leave.
You grab a seat on a hard plastic stool—the only one near an outlet. You'll need it to charge your phone and plug in your computer. It's the perfect opportunity to binge-watch that series of videos you've been meaning to catch up on. The problem is the Wi-Fi cuts out every few seconds. You could watch the television. It's showing the usual morning talk shows discussing summer fashion trends and barbecue recipes.
Oh good. Someone turned it to The Price Is Right.
"$34,000 for a fishing boat?! Lady! Come on! They're not even that much in Canada!"
Oh... you went over on your Showcase? Obviously. Your guess was terrible. You didn't want to win that massage table anyway. Who has room—or the need—for something like that... unless you're a massage therapist?
Why didn't I bring a book?
Or my new watercolour palette and some paper? I could have sketched. Or read. Or both.
Four hours.
Why so long?
Something about waiting for my car to cool down before they can work on it for "safety reasons."
Why does this place oddly feel like a hospital waiting room? I've been in funeral homes that were more inviting. Maybe it's because they don't actually want people waiting here. If I lived closer, I'd go home. If I didn't need my car this weekend, I'd have considered another option. Why don't they have art? The walls are so naked. I could paint a nice mural in the time I'm waiting.
I feel like I've just been here.
That's right.
I was.
Four other times... for the same issue.
As I sat there wondering how much of my day was going to be wasted waiting, my mind wandered.
This morning alone, I'd watched more television than I had collectively watched in the last five years combined. I'd forgotten just how incredibly boring television can be. I found myself wondering how I had ever enjoyed it and how many hours (or years) I spent sitting in front of it on the sofa rotting my brain when I could have been learning a new skill or seeing the world in person rather than living vicariously through fictional characters. I didn't know any better then. Now I do.
These days there are so many things I'd rather be doing—walking through the woods, working in the garden, spending time with friends... honestly, watching paint dry might even be more entertaining. Cleaning certainly ranks higher on my list lately.
And don't even get me started on the news.
The newscasters looked almost as bored as I felt, reading from a teleprompter without so much as a hint that they were actual human beings.
Maybe they aren't.
Who knows these days?
"It's going to be at least another two hours... maybe three," the service advisor tells me just as my stomach growls.
I hadn't eaten breakfast.
Along with forgetting my book and art supplies, I'd also forgotten to pack snacks.
There was a fancy coffee machine we could use for free. There was a paid vending machine. There was absolutely nothing I wanted to eat. I've never trusted food that can survive in a plastic wrapper for months—or years. And don't get me started on ingredient lists full of words I can't pronounce. Why is our food so not-real anymore?
My tired mind, running on too little sleep, drifted elsewhere.
I thought about the Mail Club and why some subscribers had received their envelopes while others hadn't. Why did it only seem to affect my American customers? Was it USPS?
I thought about the paintings waiting for their final glaze before shipping. It's amazing how much richer a painting becomes with that last finishing layer. Did I need more glaze? Should I stop somewhere on the way home? Do I need more paint? No. Paintbrushes? Nope, good there too. Canvases? No, well stocked.
When would I be heading home?
Hopefully today.
Eventually, a kind salesperson took me out for a surprisingly good bite to eat. When we returned, my car was almost ready.
Only seven hours later.
I was exhausted.
So exhausted that the thought of visiting the art store—or even Costco—held absolutely no appeal.
At least my car was finally fixed. They even guaranteed the part for 1 year or 20km whichever came first. Why can't cars last like they used to? Oh that's right..same reason we need a new phone and new fridge every few years. Doesn't seem so "environmental" though does it?
Driving home, I couldn't help thinking about how much of our lives we spend waiting.
Waiting in line.
Waiting in traffic.
Waiting for appointments.
Waiting for answers.
When I was younger, people waiting together often struck up conversations with whoever happened to be nearby (assuming they weren't stuck in traffic). Now almost everyone disappears into a screen.
We've become disconnected—not only from one another, but from the world unfolding around us.
Sometimes I wonder if something extraordinary could happen right in front of us and people wouldn't believe it unless they first saw it appear in their social media feed.
My phone is more than six years old now. The battery barely lasts half a day, and the screen has seen better days.
I'm not even sure I want to replace it.
There isn't an app I love enough to justify becoming even more attached to it. Some days I think I'd happily go back to a flip phone—or better yet, a landline. Oh sure it's nice to photograph more photos than we could ever look at but try finding it in the mix of 30,000 others I've taken. Albums? That takes too much time and work.
The only thing stopping me is that long-distance calls still cost a small fortune, while cell phone plans include Canada-wide calling.
Funny, isn't it?
We carry tiny computers that can instantly connect us with people across the world, yet they often distract us from the people sitting right beside us.
Maybe waiting isn't the problem after all.
Maybe it's how we choose to spend those moments.
A book. A sketchpad. A conversation with a stranger. A quiet moment to notice the world outside the window.
Seven unexpected hours reminded me that while we can't always control the waiting, we can choose what fills the space between. Time has a funny way of slipping by unnoticed, and once it's gone, there's no getting it back. Perhaps the greatest luxury isn't having more time at all—it's paying attention to the time we already have.
Creatively,
Julie
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