Enough

I used to think I became myself during my early 20s. Some people say you continue to become your whole life. But I have just realized that I’ve been myself all along.

You know that embarrassing childhood story your parents always tell? Well, mine is actually very telling.

Maybe it was black eyed peas, it doesn’t matter, but it was my favorite food at the time. When they were fixing my plate, I said I wanted “too much”.

Okay, that’s not the real embarrassing story, but did you really think I was going to tell it to you? You’ll have to talk to my mom about that!

Even as a child, too much didn’t seem inappropriate to me.

I am excessive, that’s me. Always have been, always will be.

Every word is superlative, every story exaggerated.

I like my music too loud. I stay up too long, sleep too late. I say too much. I go too far.

Too much is more than enough. But what is enough? I don’t think I even know what enough is.

I never recognize the moment when I am standing right on the line. I only notice the line after I have gone well past.

It’s arguable that I need a boundary setting exercise. But how do I set a boundary on how much I talk? Do I limit my words and then count? Some of you can imagine me actually doing that, but numbers seem sort of arbitrary here.

I can’t foresee where the edge of a conversation will be, nor can I tell when I am dangerously close. But there is no doubt when I am out of bounds.

Perhaps I ought to look back on an unfortunate conversation and try to pinpoint the line from this angle.

Coincidentally, the boundary seems to be the starting line.

Enough was none at all.