I’m in Miami, Bitch.
It was 4 days before the 4th of July weekend, and I was restless. I had been traveling for work, but I wanted a REAL vacation. I started messing around at work with travel sites, looking at where I could fly using just miles, and came up with…..Miami.
I had never been to Miami before, and I honestly did not think I would enjoy it. I equated Miami with Kartrashians, the douchiest parts of New York, and Florida Man, all in one swampy mess. But I wanted a cheap AF last minute vacation somewhere that allowed me to lay on a beach or by a pool, and thought if nothing else, Miami would at least allow me that.
I hopped on a plane and headed to the city where the heat is on. I began to sincerely regret my choice of vacation locale when my Lyft driver was not even able to pull into my hotel driveway owing to the pileup of luxury sports cars, large black SUVs with blacked out windows and OMG Becky women loitering around. I hopped out of a green Toyota Corolla in yoga pants and an oversized sweater in the 95 degree heat, already annoyed at everything and everyone.
Upon trying to check-in to the hotel, I learned that my reservation had somehow ended up at the other hotel on the same site (ahem, the “lesser” of the two properties), and I was NOT having it. I started to have a massive bitch panic attack – you know, the kind where you are about to start screaming bloody murder at some poor customer service jamoke, because things are not going according to your Perfect Princess Plan? I managed to collect myself long enough to agree to check-in to the shitty, merely 4-star property, so I could put down my things and try to figure out the problem.
I went up to my room and all I could hear was a steady bass line. Around this time, I started to cry. I called the emergency helpline for my travel service, and spoke to a very nice and very helpful agent who said she would work all of this out for me, and to go enjoy myself while she tried to get it all resolved. I took some deep breaths, put on my bikini and went down to the pool – where I promptly discovered the source of the throbbing bass.
O. T. Genasis was performing a hit song about dealing drugs on the beach about 100 yards from a pool that small children are swimming around in, and no one was even batting an eye at it. I looked around me in bewilderment. Was there no decent human being who just wanted a quiet afternoon at a fancy hotel pool, without these stupid Miami revelers ruining it for them?!? Was I the only crusty old bastard in Miami????
Then the DJ yelled “Now give it up for my man, T.I.!” at the same exact time as the poolside server stopped and asked me if I would like anything to drink. I sighed and shrugged. I guess if I couldn’t beat them, I would have to join them. I gratefully received a plastic tumbler full of champagne (it was at least 3 glasses worth of champers – I guess the server could tell I was a bit on edge), and lowered myself into the pool water next to a 4-year old playing with her barbies, as T.I. set the mood for this relaxing scene with, “I been trappin shootin’ pistols since I stood 4 feet, so all you n****s acting bad you gon have to show me.”
I got drunk, y’all. I got drunk at the pool off 2 tumblers of champagne and I went to my room (which was correctly changed to the right hotel property) and put on a dress and went to the lobby bar. I was sitting at a table alone, minding my business, and a PYT (Pretty Young Thing) rolled up and tried flirting with me. I was polite, but not particularly interested – I had only just started to relax and enjoy myself, and I had a dinner reservation for a Party of One to treat myself to. He left after about 5 minutes of working his best game, which was almost non-existent – I mean, he was 20-something and gorgeous, he probably never had to even try – and I thought that was that.
But no. He came back. With reinforcements. One of whom was a former NFL player. What the what? They proceeded to buy me drinks I didn’t need, and PYT asks for my phone number so that I can go to some stupid club where they have a table, and watch Future perform (okay, admittedly, the Future part was pretty fucking awesome). I told them that I had dinner plans, and I did not come to Miami to go to a club. I gave him a wrong number, or so I thought.
PYT texted me later that evening. Ahhhhhhhhhh sheeeeeeeeit – I was so drunk I fat fingered the wrong number into the right one! However, I held strong. I did not go to the club, I did not party with celebrities and I did not see Future perform live. I spent the rest of my time in Miami letting men buy me free drinks all over that damn city, and all they got in return was my dazzling smile.* Either in spite of, or because of, my super low expectations, I had the best vacation I’d had in years, and I immediately booked another trip back. Let’s see if I survive Miami Round Deux.
*Okay, I MIGHT have hooked up with PYT on the very last night. He wore me down with 2 days of begging and compliments, and 3 or so smiling, shirtless snaps. Oops.