Thanks to a combination of blind luck and stupidity, I rarely visit a doctor’s office. But I had a chance to do so recently, and I blew the appointment.

Being an infrequent doctor-goer, I walked in with high expectations that my 9 a.m. appointment would be over by 9:15 and I could go back to work. This idea evaporated when the receptionist told me, “He’s running at least 30 minutes behind.”

This didn’t particularly annoy me, as the doctor’s office was close to my place of work. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll be back at 9:30.” As I turned to leave, I caught a quick glimpse of the reception’s startled expression.

I didn’t waste the ensuing 30 minutes. I drove back to the office, proofed some obituaries, designed the obituary page, and handed it to the production guy. It was deadline day, and I was glad I could make good use of the time provided by the doctor’s delay.

I returned to the doctor’s office promptly at 9:30, certain that I would be greeted with only a short wait, as the doctor was “at least 30 minutes behind.” I duly announced my arrival, still proud that I hadn’t wasted 30 minutes. So imagine my surprise when the receptionist eyed me coldly and sniffed, “You missed your appointment.”

I asked if the doctor was still 30 minutes late, and she said he was, but since I had left at 9:00 when my appointment was scheduled, I was no longer welcome. Had I spent the 30 minutes in question in the doctor’s waiting room, my appointment would still have been in effect. But since I waited elsewhere so I could get something accomplished, I was persona non gratis around there.

Not being the arguing type, and hopeful my heart would hold out at least until my next appointment should I ever choose to make one, I turned to look around the waiting room I was supposed to have holed myself up in, waiting for the call from The Doctor, who keeps appointments at his own good time, like His Majesty. The room was lit like a funeral parlor and what I saw was a sullen group of people waiting for the call, barely moving, never talking, making less eye contact than a group of introverted zombies, and apparently resigned to an interminable wait, until the call of either the Doctor or Death, whichever came first. I assumed they had all visited the doctor’s office many times and were simply accustomed to the routine, and by now believed their time belonged to His Majesty the Doctor and they couldn’t do anything but wait, even if there was plenty of time to go out in the parking lot and change the oil in their car, or go home and carve a duck out of a block of granite with a pen knife.

Perhaps it’s my inexperience in such matters, but I look upon myself as a customer and the doctor as the service provider, and my time is as important as his. So, should I suddenly drop dead one day, you can thank a certain receptionist who, no doubt, was just following orders.