When is good enough, enough?
When do we get to remove ourselves from under the
microscope? When do we get to banish the critic in our head (or better yet:
order her to Hell)?
When can we stop pretending our hair isn’t gray? When can we stop using cover-up to blot out
the circles under our eyes or the age spots on our hands?
When will we be able to stand naked in front of a mirror and
stop hating our bodies for all their imperfections?
When will we stop equating imperfection of any kind with
moral failure?
When will we stop apologizing for forgetting what we heard 10 seconds ago? When will we stop feeling ashamed for tripping over a stick or for just
losing our balance?
When will we stop apologizing for ourselves?
We are educated. We work hard at our jobs and our marriages. We have pushed out children and dedicated our lives to raising
them well, even if it meant professional sacrifice. We are loyal friends and
thoughtful citizens.
We are aging, but we keep up. We go to work. We struggle with
technology. We stretch our brains. We stand by our partners, our children, our
friends. We volunteer. We exercise, when we can, to stay healthy and fit.
We have earned our stripes.
And yet, our flaws loom large. Our eyes zero-in on them
like laser beams: the gray hairs, the love
handles, the brain freezes, the clumsiness, the technological ineptitude.
A friend of mine is 85, a wisp of a woman who eats like a
sparrow. A writer, a teacher, published poet, happily married for 58 years
and mother of three. She denigrates herself for not having achieved enough in
her life. And for eating too much. A swimmer who is 65 years old, recovering
from cancer surgery and still swimming a mile at a good clip, chastises herself
for the extra flesh on her waist. Another woman and regular swimmer, tears up with
shame for being the oldest student in a graduate class of
20-something-year-olds.
I could go on, but I will stop, because enough is enough.
And being good enough is enough too.
For your sake and for mine, it has to be.
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