Likely Normal

It is both fascinating and horrifying to watch the modern mating dance, which seems to hinge on a kind of creative, aspirational autobiography. Based on my discussions with those still dating, the entire process is built on a foundation of strategic ambiguity and kindly outdated photography.

The written profiles are masterclasses in plausible deniability. A man who notes he “loves long walks on the beach” may indeed adore the ocean—or he may be referring to that one time, twenty summers ago, when he got sand in his shoes at Coney Island. A woman who claims to be “passionate about fine dining” could be a Michelin-star savant, or she might simply believe that using the good ketchup bottle at the diner qualifies. The phrases are chosen not to lie, but to cast the widest, most flattering net, allowing the hopeful heart to fill in the blanks with its own best-case scenario.

Then there’s the gallery of ghosts: the photos. It is an open secret that the most prominent profile picture is often a trophy from a past life—a younger, leaner, hairier version of the self, preserved like a fly in amber. That dashing shot with the full head of wind-swept hair? Easily from the first Bush administration. The sparkle in the eye might not just be joy, but the reflection of a cathode-ray tube television. It’s not considered dishonest, per se, but rather the presentation of one’s “peak specimen.” The unspoken agreement seems to be that everyone is doing it, and the first date is simply the process of gently reconciling the vibrant, 2004 digital phantom with the perfectly lovely, present-day human who shows up, slightly older and hopefully wiser, to the agreed-upon coffee shop.