Excuse me, Fate Waiter. This isn't what I ordered.

I wrote a story once about the subjectivity of life and how our mindset changes from the time we are small children until the time we grow old(ish). I find that many of my thoughts as even a teenager, somewhat rational considering my post-pubescent rage, have expired into the butt of jokes, or walk among the undead. Growing up, I believed I would be married at 25, children shortly thereafter, successful business woman (I invented post-its), a dog and a walk-in closet. So when I graduated college and moved to the big city where I landed, not the job of my dreams, but more like an "oh my god! A job!" job, I thought my adult life could finally flourish.

Four years later, I am sitting on the couch in my one-bedroom apartment, with my left arm draped over the belly of my 18-pound cat, writing a blog. Alone. At 28.

But my life is wonderful. I have no complaints that wouldn't melt under a 20-watt light bulb. But as I get older, as more and more friends' paths become straighter, more married, more parental, I wonder where it is I strayed to wander so far from a path I once thought was my destiny. Suddenly I can barely stand babysitting for more than a few hours, I'd happily trade a wedding for a box of pizza and a beer, and that walk-in closet only half exists as an airtight bag squeezed underneath my bed. There is no dog, there is no husband, and thirty is meeting me in a half hour, near the corner of PMS and Menopause.

My sister, Mom and I often sit and talk about weddings. I tell Anne that her colors should include a lime green accent, Mom tells me I should wear my hair in a loose bun, I tell Mom she can plan the ceremony, and we all have a good laugh knowing the lackadaisical effort we put into an original thought makes for great girl talk. But even as I sit here now, I cannot envision my wedding. I close my eyes so very tight in hopes that it will magically appear like a 13-year old at a wishing well, but it's just not coming. Those kids' names I always said I wanted for my own will now go to my friends' children, and that beautiful white dress maches itself into another bride's album. I'm slowly watching as what I thought was my destiny slips away unclaimed. Even unidentified.

I know I'm not the only one who finds it fascinating that what we once thought would be will never be, and in some case SHOULD never be. But still it could be. I feel that while I would dearly love to hold onto the hope of a memory I'm comfortable will never come alive, the possibility of it happening is still just as sweet. Me, in a long white dress and hair pulled lazily into a that bun, drinking the nectar of the Guinness gods and wondering how I ever thought the one-bedroom life of a 28-year old could ever have reached that full of satisfaction. And while it does for me now, original fate might intervene.

So, until then, I hold the cards close to my chest and raise my glass to those who will walk before. Here's to a life well lived, my friend, or a life of nevermore.