"Have you found anyone special yet?"

I smiled defensively and informed her that I hadn't. Not yet, anyway.

"So you haven't caught the eye of anyone at all?" Her playful, teasing tones did little to conceal a telltale note of pity. When this woman was my age, she already had 2.5 children.

I was tempted to tell her the complete and unabridged history of my romantic disappointments. All of the it-was-fun-but-I'm-not-really-readies and the almost-but-not-quites and the you're-really-great-can-we-still-be-friends and especially the I'm-in-love-with-someone-elses. I've had every plotline except the one I always dreamed I'd have. Wriggling away from concerned relatives at gatherings had become fairly easy to me, but nearing that milestone birthday, I could not escape my own mounting, internal panic. My friends were getting engaged, getting married, getting pregnant. I was sitting at home, eating Mini-Wheats for dinner (again) and streaming episodes of "Jersey Shore" on YouTube.

In journalism, typing -30- at the end of a piece means that it is over.

-30-

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