Instead I went again with a comfortable fave, “summer wedding chic,” which manifested itself tonight in the form of a halter dress with green palms printed all over it. With the Sea-Band and Apple Watch on my wrist and a dark-berry overly lined lipstick, I look like a cross between a pinup model and Casey’s angelic alter ego. This is what happens when your dramatic life leaves you with five minutes to get dressed.

We get out of the Uber and immediately it’s a sensory overload for me. Hundreds of people looking like they are going to some sort of adult prom are darting their way over toward a midsized yacht that’s rocking ever so slightly in the water behind us. Cue my vertigo.

“Everyone must check in before boarding the boat! Come get your name tags and your wristbands over here! Remember: no bracelet, no booze!” a woman shouts from the registration desk on the dock. She looks about my age, yet also like she’s somehow made a career out of being a professional sorority sister. Kudos to her.

“Come on, Char. Let’s check in and start drinking,” Casey squeals, dragging me by the arm toward the registration table. Her matte black, pointy fingernails are digging into my skin, which I can feel is starting to crawl with every step we take closer to the ship.

“That guy is cute,” whispers Casey about a man standing in front of us in a line of about ten other singles waiting for their turn at the registration desk. He is, I agree. But right now, all I can think about is the sinking look on Brian’s face tonight when he heard I’d be spending my night aboard a boat full of drunk single people. Even though I’m not interested in hooking up with anyone here, at all, maybe for him this is what it was like for me when I found out he was having a work picnic with Bella.

“Last name please?” the grown-up sorority girl fires off. Upon closer inspection, I’m jealous of her hair, body, and face-framing bangs.

“Rosen,” I say.

The woman proceeds to scan a row of preprinted name tags that are laid out on a table behind a sign that reads: “Last Names N–Z.”

“Ahh, Rosen,” she repeats as she picks up a name tag. “Are you...Charlotte?”

“That’s me,” I say with the enthusiasm of being called in for root canal surgery.

“Okay. Here you go,” she says, handing me the name tag and a wristband. I’m awaiting further questioning, such as blonde or brunette? College educated or entrepreneur? But I guess they don’t take dating data as seriously as I do.

I stick the name tag to my chest and attempt to apply the wristband on my own using a combination of my left hand and my teeth. I guess I don’t go to enough outdoor music festivals to have perfected the art of putting on one of these things.

“Need a hand?” says the cute guy from the line.