You go to a restaurant, right? It’s Friday night, place is packed. You ask for a table. ‘Five to ten minutes,’ the host says. Five to *ten* minutes? What does that even mean? Is it five minutes? Is it ten? Is it somewhere in between, like seven and a half? Are they just pulling numbers out of a hat? Because last time, ‘five to ten’ turned into twenty-five. And the time before that, ‘five to ten’ meant we were seated instantly. It’s like a culinary Schrödinger’s cat. You’re both seated and unseated until that host finally decides to call your name. And you stand there, awkwardly hovering, pretending to be engrossed in the decor. Is it a wait time, or an existential challenge?
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