Sometimes I feel like it's my job to go to the doctor's. I mean, there are weeks where I literally visit a place of medical practice every single day. I feel like the old people at the end of the Seuss book, Oh the Places You'll Go. And why do they make appointments for noon if they know they can't really see you until 12:35? While pondering such realities, I noticed an older woman patient come back into the lobby and then ask a staff member near the desk for her technician by name, the way you do after a haircut or a manicure, and I could see what was coming. The woman wanted to give her radiology technologist a tip. Which was sweet I guess, but hadn't she been around long enough to know that you just don't do that. The poor staff member had to refuse the woman's offer like two dozen times, saying, Thank you, that's sweet, but it's against policy. And everyone in the waiting room could hear, so even if the technician secretly wanted to take the woman's money, she couldn't, because it was all out in the open.
Which reminds me of another story related to tipping, one I heard in church last month: An apartment dweller finds a card on his door around the holidays. It says, "Joy to the World. From the custodial staff." The apartment dweller smiles, and forgets about it for a week. Then, he returns home again to find another card, same design, taped up to the door like before. It says, "Joy to the World. Second Notice!"