A crowded doctor's waiting room made social distancing difficult.
The receptionist at the dermatologist's office took my temperature with one of those instruments held to the forehead. I also followed instructions to wash my hands before seeing the doctor, ducking into a small bathroom.
Most people in the waiting room wore face masks. I was amused at the variety of styles; one fellow wore a mask with Georgia Bulldogs insignia, making me wish I had one decorated with the purple and gold of LSU, my alma mater. Alas, I wore a bland white mask, albeit the sturdy N-95 model I'd acquired from my neighborhood pharmacist early in the pandemic shutdown.
We tried to keep six feet away from each other, moving from place to place in a strange game of musical chairs. When called to the doctor, we walked too close to those seated, but courtesy, compassion and a rueful humor ruled.
Over the years, I'd made countless trips to the medical building on one of Peachtree Dunwoody Road's generic suburban corners. Sitting with the others in the waiting room, I felt I was in a different world, its fate not yet known.