Some people seem to have a bottomless supply of enthusiasm. They throw themselves into everything — from book clubs to bake sales — with the same wide-eyed excitement a kid has for an ice cream truck. I’ve never been one of those people. My enthusiasm runs on the quieter side. I can enjoy something, appreciate it, even love it, without feeling the need to clap until my hands sting or yell “Wooo!” loud enough for the neighbors to hear.

Take the Origami Owl conventions I used to attend. Every year, they’d introduce a few new $5 charms, like a red high heel, a little purse, or a pumpkin, and the room would explode in applause. Women would leap to their feet, squeal, and “ooh” like they’d just been handed the keys to a beach house. The enthusiasm in the room was contagious — at least for some people. I’d sit there smiling politely, thinking, We’re cheering over that? Don’t get me wrong — the charm was cute. But it wasn’t life-changing. I guess my enthusiasm scale for “worth freaking out over” just sits a few notches higher.