Three weeks. Three months. Elapses when I hear the seeds sprouting. Little grumbles at first, then kvetching. First to myself, then to friends. As certain as the sun will rise tomorrow, I do the leap, bail, drop out thing that I do do so well.
How am I convinced of this proclivity? I keep a journal. Faithfully, each day I record the happenings of the previous. Once entered, pen down, I re-read events of a year ago.
Oh, there is is; the familiar whining. The hour of the class is inconvenient (vocal), planks hurt my shoulder (yoga), need more money (retail gig), too far to drive (health club), no opportunity to practice (Spanish/piano). I could go on and on, but you get the pathetic picture.
Then it builds. As the pages turn throughout the year, I witness my own mental packing up. Excuses play out on each line. Blame spreads. Justifications. Then, sure enough, three (the magic number) weeks or months after the first itches, comes the inevitable leave-taking. I am shoving the songbooks behind books, stowing my yoga mat on a top shelf, ordering business cards for my newest enterprise, emptying the gym bag, and stacking the tapes atop the discarded CD pile.
You might think this sequence would lower my self esteem, make me angry at myself for giving up. Au contraire. I'm proud that I know when to cut my losses. Certainly, others may scold at yet another example of my bailing. But I counter, shouldn't I be praised for my willingness to jump in. To try out. To expand my horizons?
As you might expect, eyes typically roll as I fashion myself a hero rather than a gadfly. No matter. As long as I can convince myself that each new experience will surely travel beyond the three something, life goes on. And now, you'll have to excuse me. Tap dancing awaits.
