This summer, according to Instagram, every single twenty-eight-year-old girl got married. Except for me—and a few of my single girlfriends. “I thought I’d be married at twenty-two,” one of my friends lamented to me the other day on the phone. “And have at least three children by twenty-eight.” Yes, I thought. We all did, didn’t we? That was back when we were ten and twenty-two seemed like several lifetimes away (or at least after a shit ton of summer breaks and Christmases). Now, I can’t . . .