“Should I have Oreos with my cappuccino?” I considered, settling into the well-appointed auto dealership lobby while my car was being serviced. I had several hours to wait, possibly the whole day, while they figured out my used Audi’s latest issues, so I made myself comfortable.

Deciding against cookies and opting for the fruit salad breakfast I’d brought in my lunchbox, I made a mental note to sample (line my pockets with) the many free snacks and drinks generously offered to waiting customers later that afternoon.

My delighted eyes spotted Chex Mix, Rice Krispies Treats, Oreos, Lorna Doone shortbread cookies, Fig Newtons, Nutri-Grain Bars, Quaker Oatmeal packets, Coke and Pepsi, apple and orange juice, ice and hot water dispensers, a variety of fancy teas, and a high-tech digital touch-screen coffee machine from which flowed 14 delectable coffee concoctions with the mere tap of a fingertip.

With the first of many cappuccinos in hand, I found a chrome and wood stool at a modern high-top table, planning to relocate to a faux leather lounge chair in the afternoon. “I should work here more often,” I thought, as I spread my electronics, paperwork, lunchbox and other belongings out around me.

High-end auto dealership waiting room snacks are a relatively new perk in my life — I’d bought a used Audi when my Toyota minivan gave up the ghost after 250,000 miles — but as a military spouse who had spent nearly three decades dealing with my husband’s Navy travel and deployment schedule, I was accustomed to spending time in waiting rooms.

“I’m sorry there are no loaners available today. Is your ride coming or will you be Ubering?” Rob the agent had asked when I arrived at the Audi service center that morning.

“Oh, no,” I said with a chuckle, pointing to the three stuffed bags I’d lugged with me. “I brought my laptop to do some writing, my iPad to check into the Karen Read trial, a cozy fleece jacket and my lunch. Take as long as you need. Just don’t disturb me during nap time,” I joked, secretly serious.

The pouring rain outside further softened the ’70s soft rock emanating from the sound system, and as I logged onto the free Wi-Fi, my mind drifted back to the many waiting rooms of yesteryear.

When we were stationed in Norfolk and our son was developmentally delayed between the ages of 3 and 10, I spent so many weekdays in occupational, speech and physical therapists’ waiting rooms, I mastered Highlights Magazine Hidden Pictures puzzles and balancing my checkbook to the cent.

When my first minivan — a hunter-green Plymouth voyager so littered with ancient McDonald’s fries, gummy bears, spent Go-Gurt tubes, and sticky Capri Sun straws, it should have been condemned by the health department — was on the fritz, I used the cheapest Virginia Beach mechanic I could find. Not only were there no loaner cars, the “waiting room” was a hard chair just inside the grubby door of the establishment, and the only amenities were a filthy Mr. Coffee machine perched on a greasy 55-gallon drum and a bathroom that hadn’t been cleaned since the Carter administration. So, instead of waiting, I hoofed it down the dangerous shoulder of Route 246 in search of strip malls.

When we were stationed in Mayport, Fla., and all three of our children were in braces at the same time, I had a favorite seat in the orthodontist’s waiting room, where I spent countless hours cleaning out my purse, viewing home improvement shows on the television mounted in the corner and watching kids sneeze on communal toys.

Seeming eons were also spent filing nails while waiting on kids’ piano lessons, tearing recipes out of women’s magazines in dentists’ offices and sweating on steamy poolside benches during swim lessons at the Y.

“These cappuccinos are delicious,” an Audi waiting room companion whispered to me sometime during my fourth hour.

“Right? So creamy!” I responded with shared joy over finding this secret paradise. And as I nibbled the foamy end of my dunked Oreo, I realized — we may wait forever for Samuel Beckett’s elusive Godot, but I had most certainly arrived.

Read more at themeatandpotatoesoflife.com and in Lisa’s book, “The Meat and Potatoes of Life: My True Lit Com.” Email: meatandpotatoesoflife@gmail.com