Tuesday 23 June 2009


...comes in various forms.

Sometimes it is about things that seem so irrelevant they are hardly worth mentioning, let alone writing about them, like going to a party you were really looking forward to and then it was all a bit dull really, or you went to this fancy restaurant, expecting a delicious and outstandingly excellent meal and instead were served, at best, average food.

We can tell our friends, family members and colleagues at length about such minor disappointments, and most people will readily contribute with similar stories or recommendations about what they would have done and what you should have said and so on.

Then, there are those incidents when life itself throws a stick in between the wheels that we like to think we keep running so smoothly; when things happen (or, in some cases, do not happen) and occurrences occur which thwart our plans and intentions.
These disappointments cut deeper, leaving us with futile preparations and crushed hopes, when the barbecue we had been shopping for can not come about due to bad weather, or the far-away living friend we were so much looking forward to seeing on a certain day can not make the trip because other obligations take precedence.

The more or less helpful comments of well-meaning people on how to deal with this kind of disappointment are usually not very welcome, and so we tend to talk a little less about these.

But the disappointment that - at least for me - truly cuts to the bone is when I am disappointed with myself.
There are no extenuating circumstances and there is no such thing as mercy when it comes to me having let myself down, truly or merely in my imagination.
This does not happen often, mainly because I do not have very high expectations towards myself, but it did happen last week. Combined with the not-so-good news from a friend and some harsh words spoken at home (all three completely unrelated to each other), it was enough to almost reduce me to tears, something that happens very, very rarely (yes, the cold-blooded thing again: http://librarianwithsecrets.blogspot.com/2009/05/cold-blood-secrets.html ).

Why was I disappointed with myself?
Because I did not feel like running. I found it a drag. I found it too wearisome and arduous. It wasn't as much fun as it usually is, I felt unfit and, in simpler words, just couldn't be arsed.
So I walked about half of the time I actually had meant to be running, and came home grumpy and angry at myself (there really was no-one else I could have blamed).

The remedy?
On the next day, I was out again, and this time, the joy was back, the motivation was all there, the fitness level what I have come to realistically expect of myself. It was fun!

Sometimes I suppose I just have to give myself a chance. A second and third one, if necessary.

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