I don't ever recall a time where I was this profoundly, deeply, disappointed with myself. I don't think I've ever been this disappointed to the point (hah) of getting teary-eyed. And yet, all this disappointment has been wrought with my own hands, quite literally.
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I shivered as I sat on the leather-upholstered bench.
Perhaps an imaginary cold draft rushed at me as I lifted my hands up to the shiny, black and white surface.
A breathe. A deep, deep breathe and momentary stillness, quietness.
And then, away I go, hands aflutter and sprawling across with uncertainty, hesitating here and there, tripping up, getting tangled.
My rather un-elegant hands tremble and shake even more uncontrollably than before.
I felt my face burn up. I felt like I could burst into flames of shame.
And then I knew that it was enough. The horrid sound I created stopped as my hands retreated back to my side as I sat there in a dumb stupor.
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Does a person have the right to feel disappointed in something that happened that was the result of their own fault?
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