Winnie, Not Winifred

04 | That Damn Maze Game

I watched intently as a young girl played with one of those bead maze toys, the kind that all doctors' offices had, and seemed to be a rite of passage for every child to play with at some point in their life. It wasn't a particularly fascinating spectacle, but I couldn't bring myself to look away. I also simply couldn't make myself read another boring-ass waiting room magazine.

Over the past few months, I had been in more waiting rooms and read more about celebrity dieting tips than I had in all of the rest of my life combined. Every single waiting room was decorated somewhat differently, but in the same fashion: bright colors, busy wallpapers, and some small selection of magazines. The one thing that remained entirely consistent in all of them was that little toy.

I remember, as a child, that particular toy was never able to hold my attention for any longer than a couple of minutes. I guess it was sort of fun to pretend it was your own amusement park and each was a different roller coaster. I'd push each wooden bead down the track with my stubby little toddler fingers, yelling, "whee!" as I moved them from one end to another, and then back again. There was never anything else to pretend it was, so eventually, I'd get bored and move on to the next toy.

Now, however, I had been watching the same girl play with it for at least thirty minutes. I couldn't understand how she didn't get bored. I kept wanting to look away or do something else, but I couldn't. I was not going to miss the exact moment she became too bored to keep pushing the little beads back and forth, back and forth. But it never came.

"Hey, mom," I elbowed my mom and she set down her magazine.

"What?" she asked with fake impatience. "I was just about to find out Kim's secret belly-flattening tea recipe."

I rolled my eyes. "How long have we been here?"

"I don't know." She looked down at her wrist, which didn't have a watch on it. "A hair past a freckle." She smiled.

I rolled my eyes a second time.

She let out a laugh before picking up her phone. "Yeah, we've been here about forty-five minutes."

Forty-five minutes. That girl had been playing with that same toy for forty-five minutes. I couldn't fathom how someone could play with the same toy, let alone that toy, for forty-five minutes. It made me wonder if I had missed something extremely fascinating about it when I was younger.

I was so focused on watching the girl and the toy that I didn't even notice when a doctor walked in and called my name.

"Winnie, that's you," my mom said, nudging me.

"Oh," I replied, looking away from the girl.

As I joined my mother and the doctor, who was wearing a very bright yellow lab coat, in the doorway, I turned to look at the girl one last time. She was still perfectly amused as she slid all the beads back to one side and started all over again.

"I like your lab coat," I said to the doctor as I followed her down a  long hallway—but it wasn't like all those cold, empty hospital hallways I'd become accustomed to over the past months—it was, instead, very warm and inviting. The walkway was lined with little console tables that had fresh bouquets of flowers, large paintings of beautiful landscapes, and best of all: glass bowls full of candy.

I couldn't help but grab a few mini Reese's to stash in the back pocket of my jeans for later.

"Thanks, white is so boring," she said with a grin. "You'll be in here." We came to an examination room with a huge window that brought in an abundance of natural light and a few little hanging plants in the corner, with green leaves trickling down above the examination table. The doctor set down her clipboard on the counter and began to go about sanitizing her hands.