Before it's time

If you ask what it is too many times, you've probably had too much wine. Red wine to be specific. Remember that TV commercial - something about drink no wine before it's time? Whatever. What time? The time at which I'm about to go insane? Realize I can't fix my hot tub, my roof, my garage door opener and the adult acne I'm getting? That a man could do it all in his sleep while I flail about trying to figure it out?

It's time for wine.

And, funny, when I've had some wine, I start to wax poetically about the meaning of life, why we're all here, what my purpose is. You know, all those things people spending years writing answers to in books - those same books that they hope make the best sellers list?

Let me clue you in. In a few simple sentences. Based on all those self-help books that cost more than a year's supply of toilet paper. Based on dozens of rolls of toilet paper I literally kept in my car while I cried my way through the toughest time of my life.

It is what it is - whatever you make it to be. If you want to live your "least" life, then have some more wine, close the books and chill in front of the TV. Pretend like, if you buy that car or creamer or purse, you'll be happy. If you want to live your "mostest" life, then have some more wine, pick up a book on Buddhism or by Ayn Rand, and be prepared to be confused. In a good way. The answers aren't easy. They take time. They will piss you off. Seem unacceptable. Not enough. Yet somehow ring true ...

And then it clicks. It started clicking for me several months ago when I thought that the man I would spend the rest of my life with - indeed, the one who said he would spend the rest of his life with me - ended it. Out of the blue. Cruel. Fucker. Huh, yet still my first true love.

With the dark depths of despair and pissed-off-ness came a new sense of actually, finally, growing up. Scary. Maybe knowing a truth bigger than myself. Such as - no one will save me; I can only save myself. Wine, food, sex - those indulgences and distractions won't save me; they'll only make it harder to save myself. And, finally, maybe there is someone or something bigger than me trying to send me a message. One truly fucked up, failed, frustrating message.

That whatever it is, then it is mine to figure out. And I can flail about. Or figure it out.

Flailing sounds so much easier. Yet I finally feel grown up enough to try to figure it out.