enough

yet another filthy dirty laundry. when will it end!?
Enough.

"I know you know what I'm talking about," my friend Perri told me at brunch. He took a sip of coffee, made a face because it was too strong or too hot, and went on. "And I know you understand because you're just like me: a skinny, hairy Jew." I'm always taken aback by Perri's candidness. "And when you're a skinny, hairy Jew, like us, you look for approval wherever you can find it. So when there's a hot guy and he wants to take you home, you're not just flattered. It's like you have to go with him because for so long you've been the odd man out. So now here we are, sleeping with half of New York City because it makes us feel desired. Wanted. But you know what? It's fleeting. And as soon as we're done, on our way home on that brightly-lit train, we know what we've done and we know it's useless." It was one thing that we were cut from the same cloth, Perri and I, but giving it voice changed it. And, I have to admit, he had a point. I knew exactly what he meant because I am, in fact, a skinny, hairy Jew who has a habit of looking for validation in the wrong places. Well, I'm not actually Jewish, but that's a long story.

I let what he'd said sink in for a bit. I thought about the times that I've slept with people; about some of the things I've done that I'm a little less than proud of. I thought about getting caught in situations that I couldn't get out of, when I didn't think about what I was doing until it was too late. And I thought about why I let these things happen; why they keep happening. Perri was on to something. I'm not saying that every time I've slept with someone it's because I was proving to myself that I could, that I was always testing myself to see the hottest guy I could bag. But that motivation, the challenge, was too often part of it. It's driven by that side of me that feels like I'll be found out at any time for what I really am: the shy, unathletic kid; the awkward, self-conscious teenager. And it's that side, the one that remembers being those things, that's surprised when the hottest guy in the bar wants to take me home. It's that side that says to me, Robert, take it while you can get it.

So I guess the question is, now that I've diagnosed the problem, what am I going to do to fix it? Am I going to continue to sleep with random people for the challenge? If I don't want to seek validation from strangers, will I stop? Will I finally be able to tell myself, Enough. You are worthwhile without anyone else having to tell you so. Because, I know, in the long run the only opinion of myself that really matters is mine. And no number of underwear models or muscular punks or 19-year-old Abercrombie and Fitch boys will ever truly be able to give me what it is I need: self-confidence, love, respect.

I have to be honest with myself about what it is I want and why, and do my best to be honest with others. I have to try to find validation from within, not from acquaintances in the bedroom. I have to be confident that I am, as my mother always told me in her inimitable, matter-of-fact way, "good-looking enough for all normal intents and purposes." I don't have to constantly prove to myself that I'm desirable by racking up notches on my bedpost. Not that there won't be more; they'll just be less frequent. And they'll be etched for better reasons.