A LIttle Space for Shame

In the fairly distant past, I worked at the call center for a textile distributor.
We never met with customers or vendors, and our section of the office had no windows.
The company had a strict wardrobe policy, and we were compelled to dress business or business-casual every day.
There were guidelines in the company handbook, to help determine whether your black pants were permissible. If they had rivets, they were not.

We were, however, permitted to do basically anything quiet and undisruptive we pleased at our desks while waiting for our phone's turn in the ring-rotation. Read. Draw.

Paint nails.

In that cubicle, at 15, I learned that I already possessed the skillset required for making my own way in the world. And it made me ashamed for the women who had chosen that permanent path.

Today I am ashamed of my shame.

But I am also ashamed I didn't study more planetary geology and go work for NASA.

My job makes me proud, and many would do shameful things to be in my position. But I feel I've perhaps let everyone down.

If I worked for NASA, could I paint my nails at my desk, waiting for the Martian data to download? What circles would lead me back into my purpose-fulfillement contemplation? What is pride? What is contentment? Where do we stop being disappointed in ourselves?