The other day at brunch, Deborah might’ve lost interest in the would-be author’s dull stories, but when the guy’s date began complaining about an upcoming birthday, she couldn’t help but listen.

“I’m getting old,” the girl said. “I’m gonna be twenty-five next week. Twenty-five! I’m really stressing about it.”

“I know what you mean,” the guy agreed. He looked to be about the same age. Perhaps slightly younger.

“It’s the quarter century mark!” she whined. “That’s such a big deal.”

“You’ll probably be getting married soon,” the guy said.

“No way.” she scoffed.

“I know a woman at work. She’s thirty-two or thirty-three. You know, she’s not getting any younger…”

“No way,” she said again. “I’m not the marrying kind. I’m gonna be one of those lonely thirty-five year olds. One of those older women with a bunch of lovers who lives alone.”

As a thirty-something young woman who lives alone, and is facing a birthday of her own in a few weeks, Deborah found the conversation particularly poignant. She took a slow, inconspicuous turn in her chair and glanced over her shoulder to size the girl up.

The girl brushed stringy brown bangs away from her glittery eyelids, then lifted her glass and took a long sip of her mimosa. She wore a slinky red T-shirt, cropped just above a tanned roll of baby fat. As she leaned over the table to put her glass down, her belly ballooned gently over her studded red-leather belt.

Deborah turned back to face me and rolled her eyes. “Please,” she sighed.”She needs to stop worrying about her age, and start worrying about her weight.”

“Whoa,” I said in a burst of laughter.

She snarled and raised her hands like cat claws, before bursting into laughter herself.