In my family, I always thought of myself as the artiste. The independent one, who charted her own path not exactly in line with the mainstream.

My brother seems to be proving me wrong.

He lives in an exotic foreign locale, I live five miles from where we grew up. He's marrying an exotic foreign woman, I'm marrying someone I took ice skating lessons with when we were six. He's working on a "project" on his iMac from home. I'm performing administrative tasks within a bureaucracy.

Need I go on?

I'll go on.

He toots around sun-filled streets of said fancy locale on an expensive new bike he can fold up--just like that--and take on the subway, when it pleases him. I spend 1.5 hours daily on the subway trudging my way on the wheel like everyone else.

What's wrong with this picture?

Inside I'm still "different," aren't I?