Greyhound

You are the forty-five-mile-an-hour couch potato. You have a genuinely high ceiling and you use it rarely, on purpose, because you can tell the difference between an occasion that deserves everything and one that does not. The rest of the time you are still, undemanding, and comfortable with almost anyone. You do not need company and you do not mind it. People find you restful and are then startled by what you can do when a real thing comes along.

The risk is that the resting state is very pleasant and the bar for what counts as worth it keeps drifting upward. Not everything meaningful announces itself as an occasion; a lot of it arrives as something mildly inconvenient that you could easily let pass. You are also so low-friction that people forget to include you, and you will not remind them, because reminding them would be effort. Both problems have the same shape and the same fix: pick the thing before you feel like it, not after.