As my 30th birthday looms ever near, I find myself doing a lot of thinking about what it means to be a grown-up. At one point in my life, when I was as sure of myself as I was clueless, I had some pretty strong ideas about the label: Grown-ups worked in an office. Grown-ups were married.

Grown-ups cooked their own dinner. Now, as a newly single freelance writer who spends most of her days working in her pajamas and ordering Thai food on Seamless, I can confidently say I fulfill precisely none of those requirements.