Photo courtesy of Emily Lodish

I used to ask myself, on the occasion of my birthday, what my mother was doing when she was my age. It started out as a fun little game. Sometimes the answer was “working in a chemistry lab” or “getting a master’s degree.” It was always different from what I was doing (waiting tables at Cactus Cantina; moving to New York), but never drastically so. It was a way to connect to her experience, I guess, while also taking stock of my own.

Then the answers started to spiral off into unknown territory. “Getting married.” “Having a baby.” “Bouncing a baby on one knee while looking for the other one.” These were not things done lightly. These were grown-up things. And, instead of answers, my moments of reflection started prompting more questions: Am I behind? Or am I just me?

Turning 29 doesn’t faze me, however much stating that outright suggests otherwise. It really doesn’t. I am employed and living on my own (more than I can say for 28). I am making above the poverty line (technically a first), and can even afford to pay a man to help me exercise at the gym. I have wonderful friends, a loving family, and I have set foot on five out of seven continents. I could stand to get laid more regularly and trim my bangs, but in general, I can’t complain.

Still, birthdays have always been, and no doubt always will be, times of ruthless comparison to those around me. Even with the wisdom that comes with 29 years, old habits die hard.

I remember my five-year college reunion. I had flown in from Cambodia, where I was living at the time, to meet my four housemates in New Haven. The women I lived with in college are a fiery bunch. They are also among my best friends in the world. Our house was filled with as much intensity as it was filled with care. If the secondhand smoke didn’t kill you, the mood swings just might. Each woman was exceptional in her own way and remains even more so today. Another thing each remains is in school. A doctor of law, one of philosophy, and a couple of the regular old medical kind. It was a veritable potpourri of advanced degrees and dignified titles.

And then there was me.

As we paid for drinks at the bar, I noticed each of my dignified, fiery friends also had a cute little designer wallet. Their cute little wallets were coming out of stylish-looking purses with intricate buckles. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a sweaty wad of cash, watching the crumpled mess slowly unfurl on the bar top. It hadn’t occurred to me to bring a cute little wallet. It hadn’t even occurred to me to own one. I was still a little kid, and if it fit in my pockets that was good enough for me. And who knows what else you might find in there?

So, am I behind? Probably a little. Do I care? Periodically.

Tonight, I am having a little dinner party in honor of my big day with a group of friends from different phases of my life. A couple whose marriage I truly admire has been generous enough to open their home. As I sent out the email to invite my friends, I realized that for every person I was inviting, I was actually inviting two. Everyone had a partner, most of them for life. It did make me pause.

I’ll probably get drunker than everyone else and start regaling people with humorous anecdotes from my most recent dating disasters, reducing honest men to two-word epithets and vaguely offensive thumbnail sketches. Hopefully, we’ll all laugh and eat some cake. It will be like that episode of Sex and the City, except for the flashing.

I will be the only single chick in a pile of couples. I will also be surrounded by my friends and full up with delicious food. And there will be room for me at the head of the table.

ODDS FACT: The odds at least two people in a group of 25 have the same birthday are 1 in 1.76.

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