Last night I went to my book club and started to feel really bad about myself. All of the women in the group seem to have everything together. They drive nice cars, they have fancy jobs, they have regular doctors, they don’t worry about whether or not their next paycheck is going to pay for rent or their student loan and if they’ll have enough left over for food. They ask me questions about what I do, and when I answer I feel like a little kid. Like I might be joking. I feel like they don’t understand it’s not just what I do it’s who I am. I drove home in my beat up little car with my $22.00 in my checking account and my pain in my kidneys and my crappy health insurance that I pay for entirely on my own and thought how 31 had to be joking. Especially since even though today is Saturday, I had to work. On my birthday. And I’m 31.

I guess I thought I would have given it up by now. I thought I would be in a job at a desk with clients. I thought I would have a nice car and jeans that cost more than my grocery budget. I thought I would eat out whenever I wanted. I thought I would be soulless and hopeless and that would make me happy. I never thought I would be happy about writing things down for free that made people say, thank you or that was nice. I never thought that would be enough. I wonder if it will continue to be enough. I wonder if 31 is serious. I wonder if I have a kidney stone.

I’m not sure this is how it’s supposed to be, but this is how it is, so I guess that’s all I can say.