Good Enough?

Soon after I separated from my ex-husband, a man asked me why I'd left him. And I said simply "It wasn't good enough." For some reason, that seemed to bother him. It's so esoteric. Hard to argue with. Hard to comprehend.

But it really came down to two questions - was it good anymore? and was it enough? In the end, the answers were both no - it wasn't.

That does beg the question - years after making that tough, rough decision to end acommitted relationship - WAS it good? and what IS enough? And how do you know?

Because they can actually be two different things. Ironically, it wasn't being married that caused me to think of those as two separate questions. It was - funny, not a marriage - but my first true love, who made me ask.

My last relationship was good. Really fucking good. I never doubted, when I woke up with his arms around me and his lips on my neck, that it was good. His breath against my neck. I never doubted when we drove to cut our Christmas trees in blizzards, that it was good - that I trusted every moment with him. That every breath, every glide of a hand in his, every shared, quiet, secretive smile, that it was good. Great, even. Maybe fantastic.

I just wish it had been enough. It wasn't. I hoped it was. I prayed it was. I waited months in vain pushing and wishing that it would be. Crying - sobbing- when I knew it wasn't yet wasn't prepared to admit it.

It wasn't. He couldn't love me enough. He wasn't strong enough to balance his baggage, open it up, scrutinize it and face it. Wasn't prepared to re-pack it. He couldn't do what needed to be done. Even though the prize was ME.

So, in the end - our end - I found a beginning. Because we weren't enough. We were good - damn, we were so FUCKING good - but just not enough. Now I look to a new beginning.

Do you know what I mean? When it's good, but something is still missing? Some part of your heart is gone, is torn, is pained, is wishing, is hoping, is CRAVING something more?

He can't give it. Who can? Can anyone?

Honestly, at this point, I'm not sure who can. Maybe no one. But I know it's not him. That beautiful, graceful, loving, kiss-my-neck of a man. Who said I gave him a thousand different kisses. Yet he couldn't give enough.

What IS enough? When is enough? How many questions do I need answers for in order to have a solution/answer to 'enough'?

This much I know - some day, some how, some way - it will be enough. I might be alone. I might be only with friends. I might find that Harlequin-romance, Danielle Steele (damn that steel!) romance that all my friends will envy.

Until then, what's enough? It's enough to know I am NOT settling. I am not pining (ok, a little). I am not wondering. I am not crying - well, I am, but not as much as before.

I AM living. And surviving. And thriving. And making this life -- my only life -- something amazing -- whether it's just me, me and family, me and those I have yet to meet.

But it will be enough. Moment by moment. Because while I may wish for more, strive for more, dream of more, it is only both good and enough when I am present -- 100 percent good and enough at the same time. Any man who wants to be with me - who deserves to be with me will be No. 1 GOOD and No. 2 ENOUGH.

And then, finally, when I share my life with someone, it will be both good and enough. Good enough.

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.

What Is It?

It seems to be the new trendy saying - It is what it is. As if that explains it all away. Gives us some answers. Provides meaning. Yet I ask - what the Fuck is it? I have thrown out the "It is what it is" to girlfriends trying to understand their man's actions, a colleague wondering why the boss did what they did, or to myself questioning how close my dress size is truly going to get to my age. Honestly, we say it when we can find no meaning - when it's clear life smacked us upside the head and we have no clue what to do or say. It sounds cool and aloof but hides major anxiety.



I think the new saying should be "It is what it is - whatever the fuck it is." Emphasis on fuck.



At least then we're being honest.



So what the F is it? What does it all mean? I guess really, it's not a What question by a Why? Why am I here? Why do I spend more on self-help books than on toilet paper? Why do men like football? Why does my ass get bigger in direct proportion to how much data I have about how to keep it small? How come Bret Favre is such a big deal this weekend when honestly, all of Wisconsin should hate his guts -- like a woman whose husband leaves her then takes up with the hottest babe in town and moves into a bigger, better house? Oh, and has a smaller butt and bigger bust. And how is it old football players can retire and come back - oh, and retire and come back again - no matter how old they get -- and women seem to believe that at 40, we're of no value anymore?



Let's create a Hall of Fame for the women out there who keep striving, who throw as many interceptions as touchdowns, who fail yet succeed just like a Favre, all in one day? Who keep going back out on the playing field of life to find more, earn more, succeed more, make one more Hail Mary pass that lands us a win. No one cheers for us, but we keep throwing.



It is what it is. Seriously. Whatever the fuck it is.



So why do I need to find meaning? Why must I feel there is something bigger, better, more meaningful out there for me? And oh, god, why do I feel like I want to find a man to be on that journey with me? We all know that just complicates things ...



So I ask why. And WTF. And where are the answers. And who has them. And when I get them, will I even care anymore or will I be too friggin exhausted by this life to do anything with them? Because whatever it is, it is ... and yet, I have an amazing, wacked-out faith that those answers are exactly what I need. And I can't wait to fucking find them. Emphasis on the fuck.