I went to Cafe Nine last night to hear Marc Douglas Berardo play. There's something in his songs that always goes right through me. I have yet to attend a show of his without tearing up at a new song. This time it was a song about Havana. Yep, he went there. And there I was, with a lump in my throat and my dad in my heart. My dad, who offered me unconditional love and appreciated me in spite of my quirks, flaws and fuck-ups. This brings me, in a roundabout way, to the point of this post.
I had a chance to catch up with an old friend between sets. We drank beers, chatted and just hung out. It was pretty great. Eventually, the talk turned to my lack of luck in love as of late (heaven forbid I have a conversation with a straight man in a relationship and not ask what's up with the rest of his gender). He said something that struck me enough to post it here (after not posting for how long? Exactly). Apparently, my problem is one of semantics. Instead of saying (and understanding and believing) that something didn't work out with someone because it wasn't the right fit, I automatically say (and believe) that it's because I wasn't "enough". Pretty enough, smart enough, sexy enough, tall enough, enough enough, on and on. This, my friend pointed out, is dumb because "enough" is totally subjective. And, by the way, I am more than enough and I should probably come to terms with that soon. I may, in fact, be the shit. So, we made a deal. I promised (maybe I solemnly swore, I was on my fourth beer at this point) to stop using the word "enough" when talking about all things related to myself in the realm of romance. If I find myself in a situation that's not working, I'll try to say (and understand and believe) that it's bad timing or a bad fit, and not mark it as a personal failure because I think someone else thinks am not "enough." We high-fived on it and ordered another round. Another step in Love's recovery. And that's enough for now.
