She said, Come with me to a bar around the corner after class! My friend works there, I want to pop in and say hi!

And normally, I say No to these types of invitations.

I have to work early tomorrow.

Or, I need the extra sleep.

I’m not dressed appropriately, etc.

And at the root of all these excuses is a fear of not fitting in, of not being liked, of not wanting to alter my predictable routine-oriented world.

I decided to ignore the tired feeling behind my eyes and I surprised myself. This time, I said, Yes.

I said Yes because every time she talks, I can’t stop laughing. Because I like the way she dresses and the way she talks and the similarities between us. Because I could really use a friend who is a girl.

Men in business suits lean into giddy girls in dresses, club music pounds in a back room and I am immediately out of place in cuffed jean shorts and a loose fitting tank top.

She introduces me to her friend the waitress, adorable and lithe in a black top, black tights, brown high boots and a serving tray.

Have a seat over there! She gestures us to a table and we sit down.

Just one drink! we say.

And I sip my brown sugar mojito and we talk about stupid stuff and serious stuff and my face hurts from laughing because oh my God is she ever hilarious.

Her friend whisks away our drinks, replaces them with another.

No No! I feebly protest as the alcohol slides its way down into my empty stomach. I haven’t eaten in six hours.

Oops.

And then she’s back with a shot of something that tastes like a banana smoothie.

I’m doing shots now? What? No, I shouldn’t, I—

gulp it down quickly.

THAT IS OUTRAGEOUS, I declare and she agrees. WHAT ON EARTH WAS THAT?!

Who cares!? Over the next hour, we each consume four drinks, laugh our asses off, throw down $20 because her friend has finagled the bill, hug on the street and separate.

The summer night is thick and my bag swings on my shoulder as I make my way down 23rd Street toward the train. I catch a reflection of myself in a window and stick out my tongue. I suddenly remember a tap combination from fourth grade dance class and I bust it out on the sidewalk, slapping my gray Converse sneakers on the pavement.

Slap slap double slap sliiiiiiide.

It’s only midnight but that’s pretty late considering I still have to get home and get up early and I have to babysit twins and I have to do this and that.

But it doesn’t matter now.

I threw my have-to’s out the window when I said Yes, chose a person instead of a bed, chose a conversation instead of a computer, chose a few drinks over a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios. I’m aware that every few steps, I hop or jump or double slap just for the heck of it, my head light and airy, my stomach warm with alcohol. I look to the left and the Empire State Building smiles down, aglow in bright white.

I wait for the light to change and I tap across the avenue.

Slap slap double slap sliiiiiiide.

It’s good to be young and it’s good to be out and my God it feels good to say Yes.

Together, Manhattan and I dance late into the night, between the taxi cabs and garbage trucks and couples out on their first dates. We dance and we dance and I hope we never stop.