“I think there should be a cocktail bar in here,” the frazzled woman sitting in the opposite chair in the mammogram waiting room declared as she fiddled with the frayed ties of her thin radiology gown.
It was 9:43 a.m. on a Thursday.
“I don’t drink,” she quickly tried to assure me. “But there’s a time for everything.”
I do drink. Though not like I used to (hello, night sweats!), and typically not at 9:43 a.m. on a Thursday, but I couldn’t agree more.
Cocktail bars belong in places where people are making awkward conversation, where the tension is palpable, where a little something to just loosen us up makes sense. Not in the red-plastic-cup-at-a-frat-party sort of way, but in an I'm-forced-to-be-here-at-the-moment-because-this-is-what-adulting looks-like-but-really-can’t-we-just-make-it-a-little-less-horrible kind of way.
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