People accuse me of always being late, but that’s not true. Yeah, sure, I’m late a lot of the time — even most of the time. But there’s one thing I’m never late for, and that’s doctors’ appointments.

This, of course, is a supreme irony. For, like every other shmendrick in the good ole US of A, the patients are the ones kept waiting. Matter of fact, having to wait to see a medico could be, and maybe should be, the new American Pastime.

Me, I don’t mind waiting because I never get bored. I always have my legal tab, a book or two, and some silver dollars. So I can read, write letters or some delightfully profane limericks, or work on coin tricks. And being able to amuse myself was necessary with last week’s doctor’s appointment in Plattsburgh, with a doc who always — but always — runs late.

While he keeps all his patients waiting, it’s worth it. He’s first-rate, diligent and caring. Besides, I’m retired — I do nothing constructive all day, and have an unlimited amount of time in which not to do it.

But last week was a departure from my appointment norm.

First, being useless in the morning, I always make afternoon appointments. But since I didn’t want to delay seeing him, I had to go for a 12:30 visit, which would put me on the road at a ghastly 11:30.

Second, I’d agreed to meet a friend that afternoon for coffee in Nori’s at 3:00, which I figured was enough time for me to be done with the appointment and the drive back. Besides, my friend is a single mom with a demanding job and almost no free time. So if we get to hang out once or twice a year, it’s a big deal.

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When the going gets tough …

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Now, say what you will about me, but when the pressure’s on, I rise to the occasion, which I did on appointment day. I breakfasted early, keeping one eye on my grilled cheese and the other on the clock, slammed a bunch of java, took the dogs for a walk, and was set to fly at 11:15. I filled up my travel mug, threw on some glad rags, bid adieu to the tribe, and was flying o’er the macadam in perfect time for a Pburgh ETA of 12:15.

I’d had the foresight to fill my fuel tank the day before, but wasn’t so scrupulous with my personal fuel: When I drove out of Bloomingdale and reached for my travel mug, I was hit by the sudden and painful realization I’d left it back home.

OK, I thought, so I’ll be dragging my dupa at the doc’s. But that wouldn’t matter, as long as he wasn’t dragging HIS. Besides, I could stop at the Redford Maplefields on the way back, and in addition to their biggest cup o’ joe, I could score one of their double chocolate muffins. Thus consoled, I drove on, arriving at the doctor’s at 12:15, on the dot.

I checked in at the office, went through the usual Name, Rank, and Serial Number jazz, and took a seat and started to read my mystery. But I didn’t get far, as the air was rent by a noise as loud and piercing as a buzzsaw.

It was coming from an older woman on the other side of the room, a true yachna, a gossip’s gossip. She was talking nonstop to her companion — some sad schlimazel she’d managed to rope in to ride shotgun for the office visit.

It went like this: “So I was at Bernard’s calling hours and saw Nancy there. My God, she looks old! ‘Course she IS old, but she used to take care of herself. Her husband was there and he looked old too, even though he’s twenty years younger than her. Talk about takin’ him off the farm, poor soul never stood a chance …

“… and the Martins were there, ‘cept their oldest girl. Remember her? Married that boy from Bolivia or Bosnia — one of those B countries. Nice boy. But divorced him and married that Mexican fellow. Divorced him and is now with a Chinese doctor. Guess she likes those foreign imports …

“… I saw in the Press Republican that Dave and Ellen’s son is back in jail. Lord knows they tried, but he was rotten from the start. Best thing that could happen to them is if he got life without parole, cuz then they’d at least know where he is each night …”

Her diatribe was literally interminable. She went from one subject to another, with no segue, no introduction, with no pause. The only thing I could figure was she breathed through her ears.

As loud and distracting as she was, I made up my mind to ignore her and instead read my mystery. Since I’m a lifelong compulsive reader, I know how to get lost in the printed page. And while it wasn’t easy, I managed to do it. In fact, I did it so well, I was completely lost in my book till I suddenly heard my name called.

As I walked toward the examining rooms, I looked at the clock. I’d been lost in the book all right — It was 2:15!

The good news was my concentration span was still All Systems Go.

The bad news was if I didn’t leave immediately, I’ll be way late for my 3:00 coffee date at Nori’s. So I canceled this appointment, scheduled another one, and dashed to my car in a sprint that would’ve made Sterling Moss proud. Then I peeled out of the parking lot, redlining it to home.

I did some quick calculations: It was a sunny day, with clear roads. SL was less than 50 miles away. I could drive at a steady 63 and not get pulled over. I had a full tank of gas.

I was even wearing sunglasses.

I was channeling the Blues Brothers!

I flew by Maplefield’s, just saying no to coffee and muffin, kept pedal to the metal, and screeched into Nori’s parking lot at 3:05 on the dot.

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MIA

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I made my Grand Entrance late, but fashionably so. And futiley so, too, since my friend was nowhere to be seen.

Well and good, I thought: All I had to do was wait, drink coffee, and read — The Trinity of my daily life.

I waited, read, and drank for the next hour, but no friend. No matter — I was engrossed in the mystery and had almost finished it, so I soldiered on to its end. But still no friend.

Now the obvious question: Why didn’t I call her and see why she was late?

Obvious answer: I didn’t know her number, and still don’t. We communicate by email and since we rarely see each other, I never even considered using the phone. So without being able to get in touch with her, I stayed another half hour, finished the mystery and then left.

I figured she didn’t make it for some mundane reason, but being the chronic worrier I am, it also occurred to me that something bad may have happened to her.

Luckily, it hadn’t: When I got home, I had an email from her saying a bunch of unexpected kid activities had disrupted her plans and she was still tending to them. She was sorry she didn’t make it, but maybe we could get together sometime before the Apocalypse.

To sum up my day: I’d driven 50 miles and spent an hour-and-a-half for an appointment that didn’t happen. Then I drove another 50 miles and waited another hour-and-a-half for a coffee date that didn’t happen either. So my day was ruined, right?

Wrong.

Sure, my plans were ruined, but my day was fine. It’s a distinction we too often fail to make.

First, the drive both there and back was easy and pleasant. Second, while I didn’t see the doctor, I got entertained by a world-class gossip. Third, my friend missed the coffee date, but due only to minor hassles, not anything serious.

And finally, I finished my mystery, which turned out my biggest disappointment of the day: As much a cliche as it is, and as I’d expected all along, the butler did it.