My friends all drive Porsches, I must make amends.

I'm not sure when it happened. And I don't like that it has. But the inescapable truth is that somewhere along the way over the last three years, I have become someone who cares considers has become aware of what other people think of me. And I have become aware of it enough to start to understand that perception. The result has been a creeping sense of self doubt and a tendency to compare my life to those around me.

I am 32 years old. I have been married for (nearly) 7 years. I don't have any children. I still rent an apartment. I don't have any savings. I have some professional experience, but I work in an entry-level position. My life has been full of accomplishments, but none of them translate to awards or pay increases, and I'd have to tell you long, heady, draining stories to understand them.

I haven't thought much of any of that beyond wondering how to make it to the next step, or wondering what I want the next step to be, or -- frankly -- figuring out how I can become independently wealthy so I can say "fuck you" to the whole system and live on a beach in France. And I have thought even less of what other people think of my tendency to sit silently in the crowd, or to ask blunt questions, or to say "fuck" as often as pops into my head to do so.

Yet, there has been this creeping awareness that gives me insight into how others perceive these things about me. And I start to wonder about where I "should" be at this point in my life, and how I "should" try to relate to people to build valuable relationships, and how I "should" be spending my money and my time. Whether I gauge the answers to those questions by the scale of someone else's opinion or my own, the fact that I even consider them enrages me. It's this kind of thinking that fuels my discontent -- and my constant complaints.

Of course, I do sometimes measure my life against another because I am missing something I really do want. My husband and I spent the afternoon at the birthday party of a friend's 1-year-old. The place was full of babies and toddlers. We were one of only two childless couples there. After just a few minutes, I started to feel like the bitter single woman who got dumped on Valentine's Day and wants to tell anyone who will listen what a sham love is and how monogamy's not possible.

I knew what I was in for when we went. I know how hard it is for me to be around couples with children -- especially babies. But no matter how ready I am, and how much I try to put on a happy face, it never fails to produce the same reaction. The tears started falling almost as soon as we got in the car.

It didn't help that we spent the previous afternoon with my husband's brother and his wife -- who's expecting to have a baby in about three months. (We both got pregnant around the same time.) And it doesn't help that every time I talk to a friend I haven't seen in a while, I get news that she's pregnant. Or that every time I log onto Facebook, someone else I know is pregnant, or celebrating the birth of her child, or -- DAMN IT -- pregnant AGAIN.

I don't begrudge these women their happiness. They deserve it. But it's hard to feel that happiness for them when I look at their lives and see reflected everything that I am trying to accomplish. Something that is so simple that people do it by accident. Something that is a natural part of nearly every woman's life. And despite everything else I know about myself, and all that is wonderful and unique about my life, I feel like a failure because of it.

I know, I know: It will all work out. I should stay positive and optimistic. There are many ways to make a family.

In the mean time, I'm going to be as upset as I'd like to be over life's bitter disappointments, and I'm going to get back to who I am and stop trying to dress it up in pretty social niceties that make it more palatable for other people.