Confession: I am 35.
Is that really a confession? Is that what I mean to confess?
Maybe what I actually meant was:
Confession: I am 35 and not married and I don’t have kids and I’m not a publisher and I don’t own a big house or a car and I’m not where I always thought I would be at 35.
Yes, that sounds more like it.
Sometimes it feels like I’m being left behind.
I am the bridesmaid, standing at the altar in the pink satin dress and matching shoes that I’ll never wear again, heart cracking a little each time I’m not the one saying “I do.” Each time someone else is chosen “for better or worse.”
I am “Aunt” Katie, aunt in quotes because I’m really not the aunt, just the stand in, the title bestowed upon single friends who gaze wistfully at sleeping babies, and buy…
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