I like to start things. Starting points are always exhilarating. There is the excitement of not knowing how projects will progress, but the confidence that they will. The inexplicable confidence that the new effort will not only result in success, but some sort of remarkable glory.
Once upon a time, I decided that I was going to start making all of my own jewelry. I have been to enough craft fairs to believe that my eye is refined enough and my patience strong enough to create masterpieces. I dropped $70 on various supplies from my local Michael's*. Latching on to the nautical trends dominating Forever 21, I decided to create my own necklaces out of oversized faux pearls, navy blue ribbons, and compass charms. These items are still in the Michael's bag on the floor behind a chair in my bedroom. Not only do I have unrefined eyes, but also patience comparable to that of my two-year-old niece's.*
I've started exercise regimens with visions of an incredible beach body dancing in my head. Countless books lay under my bed, in the trunk of my (Jim's) car, or jammed onto book shelves, forgotten and never finished. It took me five years to graduate from college because I started a new major almost every year. Maybe I just have an addiction to beginnings, I don't know. There's a kind of natural high that hits me when I find myself at the base of a new challenge. Despite my poor record on follow-through, everything is approached with the same vigor and confidence in an inevitable accomplishment.
Maybe its all related to the whole self-discovery thing. At 24 I should have a fairly strong understanding of who I am and what I want to accomplish with my life, but I don't, so I poke my head into every door that peaks my interest.
*Why oh why does Hobby Lobby insist on closing their doors at 8PM?
*My career as a seamstress/designer has also gone this way, I have several attempts at creating scrubs still pinned to the patterns. I haven't worn scrubs to work since 2008.