As long as I can remember, I’ve always had this fantasy of being a “regular” somewhere special.
Like a kitschy diner where my favorite waitress (who feels more like a friend) would know my preferred corner booth and my go-to breakfast order.
Or maybe I’d be a regular at a trendy bar where the cool bartender knows my name and my favorite cocktail.
Or, in my wildest dreams, I’d be a regular at Luke’s where I’d stop by for my daily coffee on the way to work. (Any Gilmore Girls fans here? No?!)
Instead, at 26, I’m a regular at an infusion center, where my favorite nurses (who feel more like friends) know my preferred corner recliner, where they know to bring me warm blankets and ice packs before I can even ask, and where they know my favorite cocktail (of migraine medications).
I’m a regular at the hospital’s check in desk, where they know my name and have memorized my date of birth.
I’m a regular at the parking garage, where the attendant recognizes my car.
I’m a regular on the phone with the infusion scheduler, who knows exactly which days and times I prefer to make my appointments.
I always wanted to be a regular - I just never quite imagined it would be here.
