On the other end of the spectrum are guys like Colombian Carlos, an investor my friend Kat dated who claimed he didn’t have a coke problem because “he only did it on Friday and Saturday”... every Friday and Saturday. At first glance, he was exactly what you’d want. He was tall. He was good looking. He said adorable things like “I own an apartment” and “I have a job.” He had all the makings of Kat’s future baby-daddy-turned-husband. He also took her on a romantic date to Sushisamba, and as soon as the waiter took their drink order, used his menu as a barricade and snorted cocaine off the tip of his chopstick. Ah, romance.
And sure, every once in awhile, you’ll meet a breath of fresh air: a normal guy in Miami. But much like a healthy person who mistakenly ends up in a psych ward, even some of them don’t know how to act anymore. Like Stage-5 Steve. I met him on Hinge which should have told me that this was going to go south fast (Hinge is an app that promises to only match you with friends of Facebook friends, but also glitches a lot, so you actually have no friends in common and he could be pretty much anyone). But ever optimistic, I started texting. One week in, everything was great. One day later, still not having met, he told me I was “The One”, he couldn’t wait to meet me, he’d picked out our kids names, and asked what shade of blue I thought we should use to decorate our future living room. 1) I hate blue, and 2) he was a little bit obsessive, so I backed away slowly. Two weeks and 38 unanswered text messages later, he’s still asking me to dinner. I literally just got a text from him. 39.