Did I mention I'm single?
Divorced, technically. Five years now. Linda and I grew apart, which is what people say when they mean "we stopped talking and started existing in parallel, like two trains on adjacent tracks going slightly different speeds until eventually one of us realized we weren't actually going anywhere together." She got into yoga. I got into... well, not dying alone, apparently, because I let my daughter talk me into online dating.
"It's not like it used to be, Dad," Emily said. She's thirty-two, which means she thinks she invented the internet and possibly fire. "The algorithms are really sophisticated now. They can match you based on compatibility scores, shared values, life goals, attachment styles, love languages, Enneagram types, and whether you prefer cats or dogs or, like, emotional support ferrets."
"Emily, I met your mother at a bowling alley. She was wearing a shirt with a whale on it. I asked if she liked whales. She said they were 'okay.' We had a conversation about whether 'okay' meant she actually liked whales or was just being polite. We were married six months later. We didn't know our attachment styles. We didn't know if we were 'emotionally available.' We just knew we liked bowling and whales were okay."
"That's not... Dad, that's not how it works anymore. You can't just meet people. You have to be matched. By science."
"Science."
"Well, algorithmic science. Which is better because it has more data."
So I downloaded the app. I won't name it, but it rhymes with "finder" and it definitely found something, though I'm not sure it was romance. It might have been my will to live.
The first thing it asked for was photos. Not just any photos. Optimized photos. Photos that had been through some kind of digital beauty pageant and come out the other side looking like they were trying too hard.
"Choose images that show you engaged in active, interesting hobbies!" the app chirped in a voice that sounded like it was trying to sell me timeshares. "Avoid group shots! No sunglasses! Show your teeth! Smile with your eyes! Be authentic but also optimized! Be vulnerable but also successful! Be yourself but also be better!"
I don't have many photos of myself. In the 60s and 70s, cameras were for special occasions. You didn't document every sandwich. You didn't take selfies because that would have required holding a camera at arm's length and then waiting three weeks to find out if you got the shot, by which time you had forgotten you took it. I found one from a wedding two years ago where I'm holding a champagne glass and looking confused about why I'm at a wedding. I uploaded that.
Then came the questionnaire. It was forty-seven questions long. It wanted to know my love language (I don't know, English?), my attachment style (I was attached to my mother until I was about six, is that relevant?), my Enneagram type (I don't even know what that is, it sounds like a drone), my Myers-Briggs classification (which I think is just astrology for people who went to business school), and my "relationship goals timeline."
I made up most of it. I said I was "securely attached" because it sounded good. I said my love language was "acts of service" because it sounded less creepy than "physical touch" and more committed than "gift giving." I said I was an "INTJ" because those letters seemed like they went together.
The app processed this information with what I can only assume was a supercomputer located in a mountain somewhere being guarded by people in lab coats, and then it presented me with my matches.
They were... optimized.
Susan, 54. "Passionate about keto, CrossFit, and conscious coupling. Looking for a partner to optimize life's journey with. Must have HRV above 60 and be committed to morning routines. No smokers, no drinkers, no negativity, no gluten, no fun."
Debra, 56. "Quantified self enthusiast. Seeking male 55-60 with HRV above 50, VO2 max above 35, and a commitment to biohacking our biology together into something post-human and possibly immortal. Let's upgrade our relationship firmware!"
Linda, 57. Not my ex-wife Linda. Different Linda. This one was "looking for a conscious co-creator to manifest abundance and longevity through aligned intention and possibly crystals. Must be willing to do couples ice baths."
I swiped. And swiped. And swiped. Everyone was optimizing. Everyone was upgrading. Everyone was biohacking and manifesting and quantifying and tracking and aligning and intentioning and probably vibratinintentioning and probably vibrating at frequencies I couldn't even hear.
Where were the women who just wanted to get coffee and complain about their knees? Where were the women who remembered when phones had cords and maps were made of paper and you could eat bread without having to explain your relationship to gluten?
I matched with someone named Carol. She seemed normal. Her profile said she liked "reading and walks." No mention of ketones or circadian rhythms or ice baths. Just reading and walks. It was like finding a unicorn.
We arranged to meet at a coffee shop. Not The Bean Counter—a different one, an old-school place that had been there since 1985 and still had a cigarette machine in the corner that nobody had bothered to remove because removing it would require admitting that time had passed.
Carol was lovely. Gray hair, laugh lines, wearing a cardigan that looked like it had stories to tell and possibly some stains from actual living. We ordered. She got a black coffee, same as me. I started to feel hopeful. Maybe there was someone else out there who remembered when life was just... life.
Then she pulled out a notebook.
"So," she said, flipping it open with the efficiency of someone who had definitely been a project manager in a previous life. "I've prepared some questions. To optimize our time together. I have 47 minutes before I need to leave for my meditation class, so we should be efficient."
I stared at the notebook. It was a spreadsheet, printed out. With columns. And rows. And what appeared to be a scoring rubric.
"Question one," Carol read, pen poised. "On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate your emotional availability? Please be specific. I need at least three examples of emotional availability from your previous relationships."
"Carol, I—"
"Question two. What is your attachment style? Anxious, avoidant, secure, or disorganized? If you don't know, I have a 23-question diagnostic we can do right now. It takes about eight minutes."
"I don't know, Carol. I think I'm just... here? In this coffee shop? With you? Trying to have a human conversation?"
She made a note. Her pen made a scratching sound that felt like it was writing on my soul. "That's a very avoidant answer. I'm going to mark you down as 'possibly avoidant with secure tendencies but commitment issues.'"
"Carol, did you bring a spreadsheet to a first date?"
She looked up, surprised, as if I had asked whether she had brought her lungs. "Well, yes. I have limited time. Statistically, I have maybe twenty good years left, possibly twenty-five if I really commit to the sauna protocols and stop eating nightshades. I can't afford to waste them on incompatible partners. I've calculated that I can go on approximately 3.7 first dates per month without compromising my sleep schedule, my meditation practice, or my recovery scores. So I need to be efficient. Time is our most valuable non-renewable resource."
I thought about Dave the barista. About Dr. Johnson and her monitors. About Bob and his Muse headband. And now Carol and her dating spreadsheet. The spreadsheet guys had won. They had infiltrated romance. They had weaponized intimacy. They had turned the search for human connection into a ROI calculation.
"Carol," I said gently, "do you remember when dating was just... talking? Getting to know someone? Seeing if you laughed at the same things? Maybe having a drink and seeing where the night went?"
She looked confused. Her spreadsheet didn't have a column for "seeing where the night went." Her spreadsheet had columns for "emotional availability," "financial stability," "health metrics," and "alignment of long-term goals." There was no column for "laughter." There was no row for "chemistry." There was no cell for "maybe this could be fun."
"But how would you quantify the laughter?" she asked, genuinely puzzled. "How would you know if it was optimal? How would you track it? How would you know if you were getting better at laughing?"
I paid for the coffees. I left. Carol stayed there, I assume, waiting for her next 0.7th date, checking boxes, optimizing her remaining years, looking for someone who fit her criteria but probably not finding anyone who fit her heart.
I walked home. It started to rain. I didn't check the weather app. I just got wet. It was the best I'd felt all week.