And there is arguably a new social paradigm to which people adhere once they marry. Often that paradigm does not include singles, merely like-minded married couples, which seems to be the natural order of things. I don't necessarily fit in at the merlot and gouda parties where young married couples are forced together to feign niceties about their common interests and desires. I imagine most of the conversation would be banal ("This smoked gouda, it really does tastes like meat, George. Seriously, if you were to blindfold me and give me gouda inside two slices of pumpernickel, I just might mistake it for a turkey sandwich!"). And yet there are more and more of these get-togethers where my presence seems to be requested.

Somewhere over the last decade, societal mores shifted where nuptials and babies are concerned. It's not uncommon now for people to throw co-ed celebrations heralding an engagement or a forthcoming baby. I've been to a number, and I inevitably end up running lines from Radiohead's "Creep" through my head ("…What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here…"). To be clear, these are my friends, and I love them dearly. But I have no business taking part in these events, especially when I'm the only single guy there—no girlfriend, no date, just me in my Gingham-patterned dress shirt and pressed khakis, a type of pant I also feel I have no business wearing.

After each couple expounds on their goings-on (remodeled kitchens, pre-school searches, cozy restaurant finds, vacation spots), the lazy susan of cocktail conversation comes around to me; it's invariably a moment of awkwardness and askance glances, complete with its own soundtrack of crickets ("So, Dikenta… uh, what's uh, what's… uh, more wine?"). The event that stands out is a baby shower held for one of my best friends and his wife. I adore them both, and he's been a part of my life since the 7th grade. I entered the lavish apartment of the shower's hosts and was taken aback by the display on the dining room table: a three-tiered centerpiece of rolled up diapers stacked on end, adorned with blue ribbons; each tier replete with the knick-knackery of infant-dom (baby rattles, baby oil, baby powder, baby bells). "A diaper cake," a guest explained gleefully, as if it were nothing out of the ordinary. Jaw-dropping would be an understatement. It's not so much that I had to bite my tongue, as squelch my vomit, so as to prevent it from projecting clear across the room, thus giving the diapers something to do that resembles their actual function.