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The second is an alert that someone who isn’t following me has sent me a DM . I’m used to seeing these. In fact, muscle memory has me navigating to the request page and deleting the spam message about winning a free iPhone down to 2.6 seconds.

But this time, when I arrive to the screen, I don’t see the telltale signs of a bot’s photo and signature alphanumeric jumbled username.

The avatar is of a decent-looking guy, but not so good looking that it screams Tinder Swindler .

And his handle seems to just be…normal: MrFixIt312. Lame, but normal.

I give in and read the message. But after the first sentence, I already wish I hadn’t.

Hi. You bumped into me earlier on Clark Street.

I’m guessing that I have your bag and you have mine.

Your credit card receipt is in here, and it has your name on it.

There aren’t many ‘Moonie Millers’ on Instagram, and your picture looks like the girl who bulldozed me earlier.

If you’re still in the Lincoln Park area, and you have my bag, I’ll be watching a football match at Tin Lizzie’s until about 4pm.

We should probably trade back ASAP. Thanks.

No, no, no…don’t tell me, I think to myself, as I reach into the bag I’ve kept hidden between my feet on the floor this whole time and pull out hardcover number-one.

Fika: The Art of The Swedish Coffee Break.

I love coffee, but I don’t remember Angeline mentioning that it had anything to do with learning more about my gift. Plus, what do the Swedes have to do with anything?

I reach for the next book, the one I’m expecting to be about crystals, and set it down on the table.

Reverse Osmosis: A Guide for the Engineering Professional - 1st Edition

The third book is The Phantom of the Opera.

Woo-woo starter kit? Talk about…A Beginner’s Guide to Nerd Life.

I drop my head into my hand as I realize the unthinkable has happened.

My bag did indeed get swapped with the one belonging to the guy I ran into when I left The Energy Shoppe.

Whoever he was, he’s now carrying my bag of tricks and I have his.

Oh, why couldn’t this have turned out to be a liquor store goodie bag after all?

I could really use a swig of whiskey right about now.

Convinced that ‘fika’ might be the Scandinavian translation for ‘FML’ , I try to focus on the positive.

Tin Lizzie’s is an open-air bar just down the street.

This truly couldn’t be any more convenient and despite it being mildly creepy, I’m relieved at how easy it is to find someone on the internet these days—especially in this situation.

So, I grab my bag—I mean, his bag—and head down the block looking to make ‘the switch’ as quick and painless as possible.

Without even having to go into the establishment, I can see the guy is sitting by himself outside, sipping a beer, watching a big screen. He takes the navy blue hat off, sets it on the table, and rubs his hands through his blonde hair with a nostalgic level of teenage angst.

“That’s not a foul! Come on, Ref. Are you fucking blind?!”

“Sorry to interrupt,” I semi-shout from the other side of the planter box. “But I think this is your bag.”

“Oh good. You got my message.”

When he’s not screaming at the TV, I notice he has a bit of an accent—although I can’t quite place it.

“Here you go,” I say as we complete the hand-off.

“Did you look through my bag?” he asks, just as I am about to walk away.

“Did you look through mine ?” I nervously hit back.

“Yes. It was quite an entertaining grab-bag to wind up in the hands of someone like me. Do people really need this stuff to feel better about the way the world works? I’m all about reading a good how-to book, don’t get me wrong, but marketing these as ‘self-help’ is everything that’s wrong with America. ”

I try not to take offense to the fact he clearly doesn’t subscribe to anything supernatural. I barely do, but at least he could humor me—a perfect stranger who was kind enough to hightail it to Tin Lizzie’s and sort out this snafu.

“Well, Reverse Osmosis isn’t exactly my jam either,” I say back. “And The Phantom of the Opera is boring , so…there’s that.”

He flashes a cocky smirk and takes off his sunglasses.

“Whatever you need to tell yourself.”

The sass, coupled with the accent, and I recognize the playground bully immediately.

“You,” I say. “It’s you .”

“Oh god, here we go. Look, I’m terrible with faces. But if you are the girl from Bumble I never responded to, I’m sorry. I just really don’t like cats.”

“No, I’m the girl from the yoga studio.”

“Oh. Well you’ve definitelygot the wrong guy then. I don’t do yoga,” he says, relieved like Maury Povich has just told him he is not the father.

“You seriously don’t remember me?”

“I said I’m bad with faces,” he doubles down.

“San Diego. Ocean Beach. Ceiling falling. You were the guy who ratted us out to the City Inspector.”

He takes his sweet time putting his sunglasses back on before saying even more slowly: “And you’re the girl who thought it could be fixed with a jar of spackle .”

“What are the odds,” I say with a hint of my own smugness.

“I’m an engineer, not a mathematician. But if I hadn’t already had four of these,” he says, pointing to the empty beer on his table, “I could probably figure it out.”

“Well the chancewe’ll be seeing each other again is zero. Enjoy your…”

Books?

Soccer game?

Four beers?

Ridiculously stylish aviator glasses?

Why am I freezing up like a cop is shining his flashlight in my eyes?

“Enjoy yourself ,” I say, it not being the zinger I had hoped.

With my woo-woo paraphernalia back safely in my hands, I head out.

Before I have a chance to let that awkward moment sink in, it gets replaced by a holy-shit moment instead.

A new alert on my phone pops up that says @Sheree_in_the_City has sent me a direct message. I cannot slide it open fast enough.

Moonie , thanks again for everything. It was amazing meeting you.

Your energy is off the charts…I’ve never experienced ANYTHING like it.

You’ll be happy to know the venue is officially spoken for, by me, for my dream wedding on December 31 st .

I’m in shock! I need to somehow repay you for making this magic happen.

Unfortunately, that won’t be in the form of an invite for the big day (we have a tight guest list at just 400 people), but I’d be more than happy to do a post about your crystal business or whatever it is that you do.

And I’m not talking about a story that disappears in 24 hours, but a full-blown post that’ll live on my feed forever.

FYI, my going rate for those normally starts at $2,000 a post. When The Doughnut Vault commissioned me to post about their signature pistachio old fashioned, they sold out within five minutes of the post going live and they have yet to be able to keep up with the demand since.

That was two years ago. You DO sell these magic crystal things, right?

Or is it more of a service that you offer?

Whatever your secret is, just make sure your website is linked in your bio when the post goes live later today because that’s where I’m going to tell everyone to go. Let’s say, 6pm? Thanks again. XX

-Shereé Jackson, MBA

Windy City Today Correspondent | Mega Influencer

Reading Shereé’s signature line makes me giggle to myself for just a moment. I love that she still throws “MBA” in there like an $80,000 degree makes any difference in her life as a MegaInfluencer. Then again, I shouldn’t laugh. Whatever she’s doing is clearly working for her.

I don’t have a business. I don’t have a shop. I have nothing to sell. In essence, there’s nothing to see here, folks! Should I write back that I appreciate her offer, then confess I’m just some fledgling exploring a potential new hobby?

Before I spend any more time sorting my own thoughts, I decide to phone a friend—and not just any friend, but an expert, too.

“Yas!” I exclaim as she picks up my FaceTime on the first ring.

“Mama! Look at that lip color on you! Blood Moon coming in HOT.”

I’m grinning so much at the sight of her face that I can barely move my Blood Moon lips enough to form actual words.

“Hey, listen. I need some advice,” I begin. “The Cliff’s Notes version is that I met this woman, she’s a ‘mega-influencer’ whatever that means.”

“Who is it?” Yas asks.

“Shereé Jackson. Her handle is @Sheree_in_the_City.”

“Hold on, let me look her up,” Yas says. “Okay, I think I found her. Is she a Meghan Marklelookalike?”

“Yes, that’s her.”

“Looks like she’s a Chicago blogger-turned-influencer. Over 700,000 followers. Lives in Lincoln Park. Engaged to…Bryson Porter. Wow, good for her.”

“Who’s that?” I ask.

“A starting point guard for the Chicago Bulls. Gordon is a big basketball fan. I’ve heard the name before. Let’s see what else…has a meticulously styled three-flat, an adorable dachshund named Winnie, and is the around-town correspondent on Windy City Today . She’s legit, Moonie. Go on.”

“Long story short, I practiced some crystal therapy on her and it…yielded some favorable results, let’s just say. Now, she wants to do a post about ‘my business.’”

“That could be huge for you,” Yas says. “It could be like your golden ticket to some serious cashflow.”

There’s that word again...

“Just one problem. I don’t have a business. Remember?”

“Well you’re going to have to make one. Moonie, the power of her posts is undeniable. She’s got so much sponsored content, companies are willing to pay for the The Shereé Effect . If she’s that into you organically, then let her wave her magic wand for free over you and see what happens.”

“Okay. What is step-one?” I ask, the novice in my voice is really showing.

“You need product—something for people to buy—nothing too crazy, and keep your quantities minimal at first. Just get what you know you can flip and price it to make enough in profit to then re-invest into beefing up your inventory. It’s called scaling a business. Do you have a purveyor?”

I have an Angeline, if that’s what she’s asking.

“And of course you need an eCommerce website. A place for people to actually order your goods. Just a simple one would be fine for now. Those are easy to whip up. Shopify will be your best friend.”

“I’m not sure Shopify and I are that close,” I say, admitting my technological shortcomings.

“Fair enough. Let me email my web guy. He owes me a favor. I’ll see if he can set up a basic eComm site pro bono if you send me a list of what you’ve got to sell. Then, you just focus on doing a good job with this initial rush of fulfillment.”

“What do you mean rush ?” That’s not a term OB people are accustomed to—even the ones who move back to big, metropolitan cities.

“My guess? After midnight, your email is going to be flooded with orders from new customers. And if I’m right, make sure you budget for a full-blown logo and brand identity package.

I’m thinking you’ll want to pull in that lip color of yours somehow.

Make it your signature or something. Any questions? ”

About a hundred.

“So what I’m hearing is that you’ve got a guy who can turn me into a credible business before 6pm and I should check my email after midnight to see if it worked?”

“Bingo,” says Yas. “I’ll let you go so you can get to shopping. Send me the inventory list ASAP, mama.”

“On it,” I say like the subordinate I am.

“Oh, and one more thing,” says Yas. “For the URL, what are you thinking for your company name?”

“My company name?”

It doesn’t take but two seconds for the idea to strike like lightning. But when it does, I’m confident that even though I may not have my MBA, I hereby declare I am MBA.

“My company name is Moon Batch Apothecary,” I answer confidently.

I put my phone back into my purse and reach for that fresh $50 bill as I prepare to head back over to The Energy Shoppe and blow it on as many crystals, candle kits, and smudge sticks as I can.

From FML to MBA to #LFG, all in an afternoon.