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I don’t want to be a downer among the girlbosses of the world, but something feels a little off about buying my own business with five clicks and for the low, low price of two hundred dollars.

Well, two hundred dollars before Nora and three other very persuasive, very tipsy, and slightly scary women convinced me that I just had to add the signup bonuses.

The “discounted” products were apparently imperative to my success as a Petunia Lemon consultant, and since they’re the experts and I’m the people pleaser, how could I say no?

No, really. How do people say no? Much to my dismay, it’s a skill I never acquired.

By the time we got to the payment page, my quaint little business came out to a whopping total of over five hundred dollars. I had to use my emergency credit card to pay for it.

I’m going to have to get a side job to pay for my side hustle!

Money-back guarantee. Money-back guarantee. Money-back guarantee.

If it hadn’t been for Nora sitting next to me, acting as my personal hype woman and promising that it would pay for itself within the month, I’m not sure I would’ve gone through with it. But she was and I did. Now I’m a little more in financial debt, but I have a friend surplus.

And you know what that sounds like to me?

Balance.

I’m here for a good time, not a long time.

Plus, what’s five hundred more dollars on top of the bone-crushing, soul-sucking amount I have left to pay for my student loans? And with these products I just ordered, at least I won’t have to worry about the anxiety causing me to age faster anymore. Goodbye stress lines and pimples!

“Are you sure you don’t want to come out with us?” Nora asks again, the words slightly more slurred than when she asked me five minutes ago. “We’re going to get nachos and margaritas!”

If there is one thing that can tempt me in life, it’s nachos and margaritas. Tequila is my frenemy. I love her so much, but she always leaves me with regrets. And as much as I love Nora, she’s still my boss, and I cannot allow Tequila Emmy P to make an appearance around her.

“I really wish I could, but I have to head home.” The regret in my voice is authentic, but it doesn’t stop the rest of the table from trying to change my mind.

“Please come, Emerson!” Ashley…I think her name is Ashley? No. Alice? Amber? Alyssa! Alyssa shouts from across the table. “It’s going to be so much fun!”

“It sounds like fun and I wish I could, but I have to—” I try to think of an excuse, but it’s been so long since I’ve been asked out that I’m rusty. “I have to go home and…water my plants.”

As far as excuses go, plants are pretty terrible ones.

Add this to the growing list of reasons I should get a cat. I’ve been a volunteer at The Barkery for over three years now. It’s a great way to get my cuddle fix in, but one of these days I’m going to have to give in and bring a new kitty friend home.

Or move into the shelter.

I’m down for either.

“Oh boo!” Nora shouts, even though I’m right next to her. “You’re no fun!”

“Excuse me?” My hand flies to my chest, and an extremely offended gasp escapes my mouth. “How dare you!”

I may be a lot of things, but no fun isn’t one of them! I’m a delightful, hoot and holler, fantastic freaking hang…something Nora knows firsthand since I’m the most fun teacher at Nester Fox Elementary.

“You’re right. I’m sorry!” She wraps her arms around me and pulls me into a sloppy, Pinot Grigio–scented hug. “You’re the most fun! You created Karaoke Wednesdays at school!”

See? Point proven.

But even if she didn’t admit her wrongs, I already have a plaque to prove it…and by plaque, I mean a custom-painted canvas that my best friend (and art teacher coworker) made for me after I complained that nobody appreciated how much fun I was.

But it still counts.

“Apology accepted.” But only because her apology was swift and she’s so drunk that I know she won’t remember this in ten minutes, let alone the morning.

“So now will you come with us?” she asks.

Again.

“Answer’s still no.” I pull away, trying to remove myself from her drunk clutches as discreetly as possible. If I’m going to make a clean getaway, it’s now or never. “I’ll call you tomorrow so I can hear all about it.”

And coming from me, a person who has a strict text, don’t call policy, this is a big deal…an honor, if I might say so myself.

She opens her mouth to say something else, but before she does the waitress appears with another round of tequila shots, and all thoughts about me joining the party fly out the window.

The second her attention focuses on the packed tray, I dart out of the booth with no hesitations and not a single goodbye.

It’s not that I don’t understand the appeal of an Irish goodbye, it’s just not for me—most of the time.

Not only am I a people pleaser to the nth degree, but in general, I’m just a people person.

I love talking and I thrive in crowds. When I was a kid, my mom would avoid taking me to the grocery store because I’d strike up conversations with every person who passed.

Stranger danger? I don’t even know her.

I love meeting new people and hearing their stories. I can hold full conversations with anyone, anywhere, at any time. And even though I am perpetually and tragically single, I’ve never been on a date where conversation lulled.

All of that to say that I’ve never understood when a person tells me they “don’t like peopling.”

Until now.

And listen, it’s not because everyone hasn’t been absolutely lovely. They have! It’s just been…a lot.

A lot of yelling. A lot of enthusiasm. A lot of wooing. A lot of drunkenness.

A lot of everything.

Which, coming from a kindergarten teacher who once cleaned up a domino throw-up situation, an entire canister of glitter, and a bloody nose in a single afternoon and still managed to organize an after-school happy hour? That’s saying something.

And not anything good.

By the time I reach the elevator that goes to the parking garage I paid an absurd fifty dollars to park in for the day, I feel like I felt that one week I decided to train for a marathon.

I’m beyond exhausted, my body aches, and my head throbs, but at the same time, I’m so amped up that if I go home, I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to fall asleep.

I should definitely go home.

I need to go home and go straight to bed.

I absolutely should not go up to the rooftop bar and have a quiet nightcap.

That’d be a terrible decision. Horrible. I absolutely cannot spend another cent tonight.

The elevator doors slide open, and I mean to push the button to the garage, but somehow my finger slips and I accidentally push the button to the rooftop bar instead.

Oops.

I take off the giant Petunia Lemon badge around my neck and tuck it into my purse as the elevator glides uninterrupted to the roof. Maybe without the neon-sign credentials around my neck, I’ll be able to end this weekend with a quiet night of people watching.

The doors open and the cool Denver air lures me out to the patio.

Despite the city lights and the string lights zig-zagging overhead, the stars still manage to shine bright above, and the full moon spotlights the growing crowd as they gather around the bar.

As a native Denverite, my love of this city is a cornerstone of my entire personality and nights like this only reinforce my loyalty.

I don’t know what I was expecting for a Sunday night, but for some reason, I incorrectly assumed there’d be at least one table open.

The party from the conference downstairs has leaked to the rooftop, and everyone I pass has a Petunia Lemon lanyard dangling from their neck.

I brace, ready for more woo-girl cheers and offers to take shots, but with my lanyard tucked away safely in my purse, I cease to exist to them.

They look straight through me as I search the rooftop for a single table or seat.

I even bump into the woman who sat next to me during the sunscreen panel yesterday.

She brushes me off without a flicker of recognition.

It’s like I’m Hannah Montana and I just took off my wig.

I take a few laps around the rooftop, not able to find even a single barstool open.

I’m about to give up hope and make the sad, lonely trek back to the parking lot when I notice a couple standing up from their tiny table tucked safely away in the corner of the patio.

The moment the woman puts her purse on her shoulder, my vision laser-focuses on the dirty, glorious table.

An athlete I am not, but in a flash, I’m a goddamn all-star.

I’m like an NFL player, dodging Petunia Lemon reps left and right, ready to tackle anyone who gets in my way, until I finally make it to the end zone… I mean the table.

I almost break into a celebration dance before I remember that I a) have zero rhythm and b) don’t want to make a complete fool of myself. So instead, I pull out the woven chair and sit down like a civilized adult who has at least a modicum of sense. I am, after all, a small business owner now.

It feels like it’s only a matter of seconds before a waitress arrives to clear the table and drop off a menu.

“Thank you so much.” I take the menu even though my drink order hasn’t changed in more than two years. I’ve been on a mission to find the best old fashioned in the city, and I’ve heard especially good things about the one they serve here.

I glance at the food as the waitress walks away and decide to add a side of sweet potato fries to my order. It would be irresponsible to have another drink on an empty stomach, and I’m nothing if not responsible…just not financially or romantically or—

You know what?

Never mind.

I put the menu down and even though my fingers are itching to reach for my phone, I keep it tucked safely inside of my purse.

I may not be able to afford therapy right now, but as a millennial with access to the internet, I’ve been researching ways to improve my mental health for free.

One of the pieces of advice I see most often is to put down the devices and learn to be present in the moment.

And since I refuse to implement the other tools—exercise more and cut out sugar?

The audacity!!!—it’s the one I’ve decided to work on the most.

I lean back in the surprisingly comfortable chair and take in the view.

The glass guardrail, while sparking my slight fear of heights, gives an uninterrupted view of the city.

It’s too dark to see the mountains, and I wish I’d said bye to Nora a little earlier so I could’ve been up here for sunset.

Little lights rise from the streets, climbing up the mountains I know so well.

All around me, groups large and small move about in the sparse open spaces.

Conversations fill the air and laughter swells.

I watch as the women I met yesterday hug and sway to the music, their smiles wide and skin glowing.

It’s the final night of the convention and with checkout in the morning, it’s clear they’re taking advantage of every last second with one another, and it makes me reconsider joining Nora for a night on the town.

Thankfully for my bank account and probably my tequila-averse liver, the thought comes as fast as it goes once the waitress drops off a little bowl of spiced nuts and takes my order.

A night bonding with women who may or may not remember it in the morning might be tempting, but nothing can top an old fashioned made with Madagascan vanilla bean–infused sugar and sweet potato fries served with homemade jalapeno ranch.

Unfortunately for my personal life and my waistline, food and a good craft cocktail will always beat out any and all competition.

I grab the bowl of nuts off of the table, carefully pushing the almonds to the side in favor of the pecans and walnuts, surprised when the waitress returns like the freaking Flash.

Except, when I look up with grateful eyes expecting to see a gorgeous cocktail garnished with a maraschino cherry and orange and lemon peel, I’m stunned to silence when I’m met with something impossibly more gorgeous and welcome than an old fashioned.

Or more accurately, someone more gorgeous.

In the words of Carrie Bradshaw— and just like that , this night just got a whole lot more interesting.