motivation vs. drugs

i am in search of motivation.
and some prozac.
got either one that you're willing to share?

here's my story:

Husband & i have SO fallen off the Weight Watchers wagon, it ain't even funny. and i need to be back on.

i'm just lazy. poor excuse, huh?

you'd think after all the mental angst i put myself through over the back surgery that it would be a no brainer.

i'm lazy. L-A-Z-Y.

but...i'm going back today. i need to fix me. and since i am responsible for my own happiness (as well as not having more back surgery), i'm getting off my bum and taking the husband and we're going.

i'd like to think i can be as successful as my Melissa, i want to believe. and so the journey begins.again.

and now, on to the prozac portion of our program today.

yesterday at work, my group had a lunch. originally it started as a group get together, but expanded into a birthday lunch (we have four May birthdays in our group). (oh, and did i also mention that the person who spearheaded this whole lunch thing didn't participate? whatever.)
and did i also mention i was the one who ended up fetching the lunch?

that's very important for later.

the whole lunch yesterday was just odd. well, not the lunch, but the whole prep leading up to it. people kept changing their minds on what they wanted to order. then one of the women in my group wanted to know when i was picking up the order. you see, the last time they had an order from this place, the order was made late, and wasn't ready, blah, blah, blah.

hmmm...am i now responsible for the time restaurants takes to cook? oh well.

i place the order (early, i might add) and take off to fetch it. not everyone had paid me, so when i got there, i decided to just put the whole thing on my check card.

wait...where's my check card?

oh crap.

check the pockets, nope - it's not there. go back to the car and go through my purse. negative.
check the wallet. dang. check the pockets again.

as my stepfather would say, it vanished like a fart in a whirlwind.

i called my boss, and asked him to check my hoodie, at my desk, hoping that i just left it in my pocket, from when i got gas earlier in the morning.

he comes back to the phone. "sorry, i didn't find anything."

let me just give you a minute to digest that. let me also give you a minute to imagine my panic and nausea.

"just kidding. i've got it right here."

let me also give you the opportunity to join me in killing him.

he came out to meet me and bring the card, and also says "i've never heard you panic. ever. you were panicked. it was weird."

well, duh. that card, like most Americans, is my lifeline.

but he's right: panicking is really not something i do.
it was then i realized that i've been married too long.

Husband is a panickier. my mom is one, too.

could it be that as i get older, i will panic all.the.time?
i'm getting fat, lazy and panic at the whim of a breeze.

Mick Jaggar was right: what a drag it is getting old.