Lovely dinner with my old friend C tonight. We’re the same age and have known each other for over 22 years. Back in the day we’d hang out at the coolest clubs then go for a bite to eat at equally cool eateries and flirt with life’s possibilities. She’s as friendly and thoughtful as ever, she looks great as ever, her routine remains unchanged with daily swimming at 6:20 a.m., which keeps her toned and slender. She has plenty of style and always looks well put together. She’s never flashy or obvious, but your know the jewels are the real deal, the watch is the kind people get mugged for, and the handbag has been copied all over the world and happens to look much like the version I bought, only hers has a plaque on it engraved with the designer’s name. As a 40th birthday gift, her loving husband of almost 20 years surprised her with a trip to Paris this winter, while their three attractive children remained at home with their grandmother. There are yearly family trips to an almost deserted Caribbean island to visit the grandparents, who set up residence there some years ago. There is a beautiful weekend chalet up north designed by her husband and decorated with style and to which I’ve been invited many times to spend weekends hiking, canoeing and swimming. I’ve always found reasons not to go, feeling like I don’t belong to their world—why would they want the likes of neurotic & depressed old me over there? How I’ve wanted to hate C over the years. But it’s just not possible—she happens to be a very sweet, very likeable girl. How I’ve yearned to be just like C. But I guess I just happen to be a different creature altogether. What’s really funny is that while I’m feeling sorry for myself, I know there are people who feel much the same way when they compare themselves to me—we’re always somebody else’s C.