The fact that I never became a mother is both a personal story and a cultural one, like most things I write. It’s about choices, and choices you don’t get to make. It’s about the unintended consequences of feminism, but also Western affluence, because the fertility rate declines as people get richer, more comfortable. The data is pretty strong: The more we have, the more we live alone. . . .

He was the first in the water. I sat on a towel and watched him splash around like a little boy. “It feels amazing,” he assured me, and I waited until strangers had stopped passing, and then I took off my top and the little gingham skirt that hid the heartbreaking part of my thighs, and I hustled out in my one-piece fast enough that maybe nobody saw me. Whenever I allowed myself to return to water, I was overwhelmed by how much I had missed it.. . .

I joined the dating site about a year ago, and I’d met one extravagant phony in that time, but he was such a good story that I didn’t mind. Most of the guys were pretty much as advertised. They were attractive and smart and funny. I liked them, but not enough, and I was growing frustrated by the come-ons that arrived in my inbox from another random dude holding a cell phone up to a bathroom mirror. “Hi how r u???” Or: “Greetings from Tulsa.”. . .

So, what did I think of this writer? In the following months, I thought a lot of things about her. I thought she was a gifted memoirist and a self-mythologizing poser. I thought she was an addict in love with her own damage and a deeply troubled soul. But mostly what I thought after clicking the link in that e-mail was: Damn, her Whitney Houston piece was better than mine.. . .

But I try to hold on to the girl who was young and stupid enough to believe in foolish adventures, the girl who was equal parts ready to fall in love with you and hurl a ball peen hammer into your front windshield. I had a strength I did not realize, but one I did not forget. When I am restless and defeated and scared again, I tell myself this: that the greatest trip of my life came because I did not get the things I wanted.. . .

In high school, I knocked back Budweiser while the sweet sugar plums on the dance team and the cheerleading squad sipped their dainty wine coolers and passed out on the couch. College was a five-year jag of bargain wine and bourbon. I was good at drinking, which was a relief because I also quite liked it. Being drunk solved one of the key problems of my existence — namely, that I was me.. . .