Dr. Pepper Anxiety

I just opened an “all employees” email at work with the subject line “FedEx”.  This is what it said:

I read it, re-read it, and then gave it a huge eye-roll.  I mean a BIG ‘ol roll.  I had to blink a couple times afterward and thought to myself *whoa.  That was big eye roll.  But seriously?? An email to ALL of us?  And what kind of a name is mother-effing Schlissberg!?  I hate New York and their weird Jewish sounding last names.  And I hate the mailroom guy for sending us that STUPID email!*

Now.  Paul, the “mailroom guy” is new.  He doesn’t know yet that it’s his responsibility to refill the coffee stirrers in the account kitchen (so I use the same plastic fork every morning which is probably going to end with me getting Ebola but whatever), and he forgets everyone’s name but he says “Good Morning” to me every single day. 

So I thought to myself ‘Now Drew.  That email was not the worst thing that’s ever happened.  Maybe you need to take a break and go get yourself a Diet Dr. Pepper’… which leads me to the real point.  About every other day I dig in the bottom of my purse to find 50 cents to travel to the other end of the office where the vending machine lives to buy a Diet Dr. Pepper.  Every time (EVERY time) I scan the choices and panic – sheer panic – and say to myself  “Oh my God I don’t see it.  They finally got rid of the Diet Dr. Pepper.”  And then I look again and it’s always there.  It’s important because New York (the North) doesn’t really do Dr. Pepper.  It’s never served anywhere.  So the fact that I can get it at work feels like a small Christmas Miracle every time.  So it happened again, as it always does, this afternoon. 

Scan.  GASP.  PANIC.  Realization.  Tiny embarrassment. Check to see if anyone saw.  Insert 50 cents.

I’ve never really had a problem with anxiety, but I’ve been pretty anxious as of late and it’s only worsened my Diet Dr. Pepper reactions.  I don’t  know why I get to the vending machine expecting them to have gotten rid of the Diet Dr. Pepper.  It took HR 3 weeks to approve a colleague sending an email about getting drinks for my birthday.  It would take months for someone to sign off on removing something from the vending machine.  Well, maybe not, but why the hell would anyone be spending their time thinking about doing, much less DOING that?  And yet, it is my expectation every time.  I might leave right now and buy 6 and store them in the fridge in anticipation of the inevitable day that it is no longer available.  Because, my friends, it’s comin’.

I don’t know what this means for me.  Why I’m waiting for someone to take my afternoon miracle from me, but I’m gonna figure it out.  Maybe I’ll bring it up with my therapist.  Right now, we’re working on being a pleaser, so maybe next week.

I’ll keep ya posted.

- d