Do you feel a twinge whenever you discover that someone you went to school with has become very successful or is, at least, more successful than you are?

A twitch of envy perhaps?

A tug of regret that life hasn't dealt you an equally good hand?

An irritation, almost, with the person's good fortune?

Then a ruefulness because you know in your heart that it's probably not fate that brought him his success but hard work, and you realise you've got only yourself to blame for not being as successful?

Which brings on something akin to self-reproach?

And then embarrassment for allowing yourself to think such petty thoughts?

I felt a bit of all that last week when I flipped open The Straits Times and found myself staring at someone whose face and name rang a bell.

The person had made headlines for an achievement in the corporate world.

It took me a while but I finally figured out that I was in school with him.

Wow, I thought, he sure has gone far in life. I was impressed.

I wondered what he had done all these years to get to that stratified position.

I also wondered - rather churlishly, I must admit - what qualities he has that I don't.

Was he smarter than me? More eloquent? Possessed more street smarts? More diligence? Had more perseverance? Blessed with good timing? Had a mentor?

Maybe it was all of the above.

It wasn't the first time this had happened.

Over the years, I've read newspaper reports of former school mates who are topping, or have topped, the various professional fields they have chosen in life.

(There have also been those who made the news for the wrong reasons - like getting on the wrong side of the law - but it's human nature, isn't it, for us to compare ourselves with those who are better off than those who are worse?)

Some have done very well in the arts. Others have made waves in the worlds of finance, business, academia, the military and other branches of the civil service.

Unless the person had been especially obnoxious to me in the past, I'll feel happy for him. He must be pleased to have got so far and I'm glad he's happy.

There's a bit of pride too, though it is pride-by-association, which is misplaced and pathetic, I know.

You feel proud to have known this now-successful person - however vaguely or fleetingly - and this endows you with bragging rights.

You tell anyone who is interested (usually no one is) that you had gone to school with that person. You act as if just knowing him makes his awesome achievements somehow a reflection on you - which they aren't, of course.

But then, you start comparing yourself with him, and that's when it becomes disquieting.

You think of the classes and teachers you shared and you wonder how he ended up at the top of the heap and you, if not quite at the bottom, in the middle somewhere.

Education-wise (and education does count for a lot in how you end up in life), you both had the same start. Yet he must have been so much cleverer than you to have gone so far.

It makes you ponder your lot and question your abilities, priorities and self-worth. His success makes you re-evaluate your life. Yup, it sure brings on the angst, even though your rational mind tells you that it's pointless to compare.

There will always be somebody smarter and better in some way than yourself and, if you start comparing with the best and getting upset by it, you may as well not bother getting up in the morning.

Of course, how much another person's success affects you depends on what and how you define the term 'success'.

Because I place so much weight on my professional life, news about the former school mate's success in the corporate world made me re-examine my own career.

'Success' for me equals job success so, yes, his gain felt a bit like my loss. I felt inadequate in contrast, at least for an hour or so before I snapped out of it.

But if that school mate had made the news for acing areas I have no interest or inclination in, I'd just be happy for him and leave it at that.

If he had broken the record for an Ironman triathlon, for example, I'd merely salute him.

If he had written a best-selling song or directed an acclaimed play or excelled in the field of physics - areas I am not interested in - it'll be just another interesting story of someone I once knew.

If it had been a woman and she was being feted by the media for being the world's most dedicated stay-at-home mum and for baking the prettiest cupcakes, I'd say congratulations and good luck. These are not things I spend time thinking about.

But one's concept of success is not cast in stone. It changes as you age.

When I entered journalism after school, 'success' for me meant getting as many bylines as I could into the newspaper, better still if it was a byline on the front page.

'Success' meant being chosen to cover overseas ministerial trips, and it meant winning writing awards.

All these 'achievements' might seem trivial to others, not worth losing sleep over, but it meant everything to me then.

In my 30s, my definition expanded. I was still hungry to do well at work, and 'success' now also meant being able to acquire material things with the money I made.

But I started to hanker for 'success' in the personal realm too. I wanted to ace it when it came to relationships. I wanted to be part of a 'successful' couple.

Alas, I didn't come up tops in the love stakes. In fact, compared to people around me who went on to get married and start happy families, I failed utterly, miserably. I got an F9. But it was okay, I didn't really mind.

Now that I'm in my 40s, I'm beginning to frame 'success' in life in other terms.

No, I haven't quite lost my professional ambitions, not yet. Witnessing the corporate achievements of my peers still clearly brings on a competitive twitch in me.

But I'm more determined to balance that with doing well on the home front too.

And in my book - for we all have different definitions - success in my personal life now means peace of mind, a constant state of low-grade contentment rather than periodic episodes of extreme happiness, and a sense of settledness.

Will I ever attain it?

One can only hope, and time will tell.

This article was first published in The Straits Times.