You know how you get those Tinder matches sometimes that you don’t really remember swiping right on and you’re not super enthusiastic about? Sometimes I’ll unmatch, sometimes I just don’t message the guy and it doesn’t matter. Well that’s how I met Mike. I received a Tinder notification one Tuesday morning and saw that I had a new match, which quickly turned into a new message from Mike. I honestly couldn’t tell you what Mike really even looks like. Dark hair, dark eyes, white guy. Pretty average looking, to be quite honest. As I looked back through his profile I was only moderately interested but I wasn’t in any position to pass up friends as I’d just moved to LA, so I responded to his message. He was pretty direct and after a few basic messages he suggested Taco Tuesday that night at Cabo Cantina in West Hollywood. After we exchanged numbers he suggested meeting at his place since he lived in walking distance, but not being one to go to a strange man’s home before meeting in public, I declined and said I’d prefer to meet at the bar. He seemed to act like that was a stupid concern of mine, as if it was totally absurd for me not to come to his place first. That should have been enough for me to decide not to meet him, but I failed to notice red flag number one.
There would be several more red flags.
Mike suggested that I could park at his place, but I told him I would be ubering and I would meet him at the bar. He finally conceded to that and said to meet him there at 8:30. Later that evening when I was headed to meet him, Mike texted again asking me if I party. I assumed he meant cocaine, to which I responded “occasionally, why?” He said he had some for that night for us.
It is Tuesday. This is a first date. We have not even met yet. Maybe bring the blow up after a few drinks or something, damn. That was yet another red flag I didn’t listen to, and I laughed it off and said I was good on that, I wasn’t trying to rage. He laughed and simply said “Welcome to Los Angeles, this isn’t Texas.”
I couldn’t have rolled my eyes harder. Clearly Mike had never been to Austin. For those who aren’t aware of the party scene in Austin, Texas, the bars may close at 2am but the party really never stops. That city has the most liquor licenses per capita in the United States and it’s essentially one giant bar. And don’t even get me started on the drugs. Texas is a border state to mainland Mexico. You know, where the cartel is? You can practically will a bag of coke to appear in your purse (or on the floor next to your foot in a bar, or in your pocket, or in your bra, don’t ask how I know these things). Austin also is full of young professionals with disposable income and something to do every night of the week, plus cocktails don’t cost twelve fucking dollars and bars don’t have long lines of cunts in fake Louboutins trying to find guys buying bottle service. I party way less and not nearly as hard in LA than I did in Austin. But I digress…
That condescending tone should have been yet another red flag, but here I was already almost to Cabo Cantina so I thought I could suck it up for a couple drinks and maybe he wasn’t that bad.
Hoe tip: pay attention to the fucking red flags, you idiot.
I texted Mike that I was there and he said “inside, table to the right of the door.” Oh god. No. Was that…was that him? What the fuck old ass pictures was this guy using on Tinder?? Mike was about 6 inches shorter and 40 pounds heavier than his pictures suggested. And to say his hairline was receding would be inconsiderate to men with receding hairlines. He had a full head of hair in his pictures. I looked around for a minute until I heard him say “Meredith? Hey, I’m Mike.”
Before you start to think I’m a shallow bitch…well…no, you’re right, I’m a shallow bitch.
Look I’m not saying a heavy, short, or bald guy can’t be attractive. I mean I used to regularly bang a guy that was 5’6” and one who was bald as fuck. But this…was this technically catfishing? He had obviously used very old photos and somehow just expected that to fly. But what was I supposed to do at that point? I accepted his hug and sat down across the table from him, and he grabbed the leg of my barstool and pulled me next to him.
What the fuck dude. Another red flag.
The waitress came to our table quickly and Mike ordered for the both of us. I was almost frozen with shock at this dude’s behavior. The bar had two for one drinks and tacos, so he ordered us EACH two margaritas, a shot of tequila, and two tacos. I just kind of stared at him, and the server could tell I was visibly uncomfortable and got our drinks out to us lightning fast. I downed the tequila shot and started working on my first margarita when the tacos came out. Mike clearly missed out on social cues and kept putting his hand on my knee as if he was completely oblivious to the fact that I kept adjusting to be further and further away from him so he couldn’t reach me. He spent the entire time talking about himself while his mouth was full, which was just as charming as his lack of respect for my personal space. As it turns out he was just some spoiled as fuck rich kid from Bel Air who’d never worked a day in his life and thought he was better than everyone because he drove an Aston Martin (that his daddy paid for) and lived in some fancy condo in West Hollywood. I have no problem with someone being privileged—if your parents have that much money that you’re set for life, good for you, but that doesn’t make you any better than me. I don’t think I’m better than anyone because I’ve supported myself since I was 19. We all come from different backgrounds. But as the great Countess Luann de Lesseps once sang “money can’t buy you class,” and Mike was in serious need.
I finished my first margarita when Mike mentioned there wasn’t any hot sauce on the table. So instead of just going to the bar or snagging some from the empty table next to ours, he did one of the rudest things I’d ever seen someone do in a restaurant. He fucking snapped his fingers at the server. I was horrified. I realized he also hadn’t uttered a single “thank you” the entire time we’d been there. I just wanted the date to be over. I sucked my second margarita down in record time and then said I had to use the bathroom. I planned to sneak out but realized he was facing the door and would see me leave so I hid in the bathroom for a few minutes texting my best friend Rachann who lives in Austin.
“What the actual fuck do I do? This is horrible.”
We texted back and forth a little and I decided I was going to feign an emergency and say I needed to leave. I got back to the table and there were two more giant margaritas waiting for me. I told Mike that I had to work the next day so I didn’t want to get drunk (which is an almost comical thing for me to have said—I worked for a brewery, getting drunk was practically part of my job), to which he replied, “Well we can go back to my place and do some blow.” Dude, enough with the fucking cocaine. I didn’t trust that this guy hadn’t slipped something into one (or both) of these drinks, so when I sat down I kept my phone in my lap and quietly called an uber under the table. Once the uber was arriving I told Mike I had a phone call I needed to step outside to take and that I’d be right back.
I practically dove into the back seat of this uber and shouted “DRIVE, DRIVE!!” at the driver and he took off. As I began explaining the dinner to my uber driver he was nearly in tears laughing so hard. As I was regaling the details of the night, I unmatched with Mike on Tinder and blocked his phone number. When I got home I laid in bed just laughing at myself and the entire situation. Lesson learned: never go through with a date when there are so many red flags and you know you aren’t into it.
Oh well. At least I got tacos.