The Algorithm Affair

There it was, in my Instagram feed on Sunday morning, tempting me. An ad for on-line dating. How did the algorithm target me, a happily married woman with three adult kids? I scrolled through the pictures of smiling couples holding hands, mouths open in laughter, eyes twinkling. My finger stopped before closing the ad as a thought popped into my head. What would it be like to date someone new?

Ten minutes later, I had googled dating sites, laughed my way through the kitschy names: OurTime, SilverLoveCupid, Eharmony Senior. I gasped at that one. Am I a senior? At 62? And my colored hair wasn’t silver either.

This was a world I’d never explored before. There was something for everyone: singles with food allergies, farmers, Satanists, atheists, people who liked vampires or thought they were vampires and so many more. I looked around my living room. Was there a site for people who like comfy couches and watching football on TV?

I hadn’t thought about dating in decades. After all, Matt and I were just about to celebrate our 38th wedding anniversary. Life with Matt was lovely. Solid. Comfortable. Loving. We already had a reservation at the local fancy restaurant, The Pitcher Inn, the place where we always celebrated family milestones.  

I looked at the dating site displayed on my laptop. Why Not Now? The tagline was “A site for people trying on-line dating for the first time.” I remembered the thrill of a first date, the anticipation, the jolt of adrenaline in meeting someone new, doing something different. This would be a vicarious way to feel that again, right? Not actually have a date, just pretend. 

I took a deep breath and dove in. I picked “create a profile,” and started answering the basic questions. I am a woman, looking for a man. Name: Adele P. Height: 5’5.” Weight: 140 lbs more or less. Hair color: brownish. Eye color: brown. Things I liked to do: ski, play pool, and eat French fries dipped in mayo. Things I didn’t like: cigarette smoke, parrots or snakes as pets, and dirty socks on the floor.

The site wanted me to upload a photo, but it also said I could enter that later. It would take me an hour to find a photo that I liked, so I skipped that step.

The final box asked me to write a 15 word bio.

A life in 15 words? 

The cursor blinked steadily, waiting, waiting. The text below the box cheerily told me not to worry, I could change my bio later, but try writing one, keeping it light and fun.

This pretend dating was almost as stressful as real dating.

After way too many edits, I entered “Sassy near-sixty-year-old who likes surprises, sleeping late on Sundays, and champagne in paper cups.”

After I hit submit and got the positive You Did It pop-up message and a burst of confetti, as if this was a party for a six-year-old, a dark thought niggled. If I actually wanted to date again, could I?  

I took an inventory of myself: perhaps too opinionated, perhaps a bit chubbier than needed, but a darn good day hiker who packed a great lunch. I stood up and walked to the bathroom mirror to examine myself: wrinkles around intelligent eyes, some sun damage on my cheeks from a lack of sunscreen, and practical gold ball earrings. I pulled the skin at the edges of my face, an instant facelift. It made my lips odd and splayed. I released the skin. Anyone I dated would have to like my face as is.

I went back to the computer, determined to move on with my day, but there was an email with the alluring title, “Three matches already! You are on your way to new love.”

I hovered my mouse over the email, then slammed the laptop shut.

***

The work week moved along. Matt and I had morning coffee together, went to our jobs, came home, made dinner, and went to bed. We talked about fixing the car and how the kids were doing. One night I had a Rotary meeting. Another night, Matt had book club. Guests were coming for the weekend, so I did some extra shopping and made sure clean linens were on the spare bed. It was a normal week.

Almost.

The dating email had burned a hole in my resolve. On late Thursday night, I opened it and clicked through to the site. The directions were clear.

Our algorithms have worked overtime to provide you with some fantastic matches based on your likes, dislikes, bio, and locale.

Look at your 3 matches, Read their profiles.  

Say YES or NO to each one.

If you say YES, we will provide you with the information you need to contact your possible new love.

If none of these matches are right for you, just click on “Still Looking for Love” and we will send more great options.

I felt guilty and my heart raced as I clicked on the first profile. Did clicking on emails constitute cheating? 

I clicked on Henry W. A photo filled the screen of a very handsome man sitting in an armchair. His dark eyes bore into me. I shivered a little at their intensity. The chair looked leather and expensive. Behind it, I could see a room that might be a library. I eagerly read the bio profile. “Looking for love under the stars on a mountain top.” So romantic. Where would we go on our date? A secluded picnic spot? I shook my head back into reality. His profile had actually said nothing about him. I squinted at the photo. Was that a Fisher Price toy on the floor in the background? He must have little kids. Or grandkids. Would I want someone with a family? How would my kids feel about that? I pushed the NO button.

Bill F filled the screen, a wide-angle shot of a man standing in hip-height waders, holding a medium-sized fish, with a big grin on his face. It seemed like an odd choice for a photo. Outdoorsy was good. But fishing? I read his profile. “Love fishing. Penn State tailgating with a cold beer. And my 3 kids.” At least this guy seemed honest. He mentioned kids right up front. And he had a gleeful smile. We’d probably have fun hiking or canoeing, something water related. But there was a show-stopper. I mean, I’m an Ohio State fan. I pushed the NO button.

Actually, this was kind of fun. A bit voyeuristic, sure, but no harm. Like watching young lovers kiss, or a mom cuddling her newborn. Harmless enjoyment of life and love. I clicked on Joe S.

Staring out from the screen was Matt’s divorced friend, Joe. Well, Joe of ten years ago. Today’s Joe was at least twenty pounds heavier and with a full beard. Wait! People might lie on their photos or profiles? I scoffed inadvertently. Joe? Really? I was a fit to date Joe? I hit “NO” without even reading his profile.

The site gave me accolades for reviewing my first profiles and asked if I wanted more matches. I deleted the email and closed the laptop. Three matches were enough for me.  

***

Friday was our night off cooking at home, so Matt and I headed to the Hyde Away for our favorite bacon-wrapped meatloaf.

The parking lot was full of both Vermont and out-of-state plates. Ski season was underway and everyone enjoyed a three-day-weekend now and then. We stamped the snow off our boots and once inside, the wall of warmth and noise enveloped us in the wood-paneled bar. We checked in with the hostess and moseyed over to the bar to wait for our table.

“The usual?” Randy, the bartender, asked as he saw us approach. The cozy bar was often a go-to way to start the weekend.

“Yup,” Matt said. “One chardonnay and one Long Trail.”

“Coming right up,” Randy said and swiveled away to get our drinks.

I saw a hand slap Matt on the back. “Hey, Matty-boy, how’s it hanging?” Joe asked.

“Hey, Joe, good to see you,” Matt said. “What have you been up to? Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Been out on the town, trying to date,” Joe said. “It’s tough out there.” 

Joe turned to me and winked as he put his hand over his heart. “I mean, Matt’s a great guy, but how could you say no to my profile, honey?”

The floor of the Hyde Away was vintage pine. Maybe it would give way right this instant and swallow me. Was fainting an option? How did one faint?

Matt looked at me and said in a measured voice, “What is Joe talking about?”

“Matt and Adele, your table is ready,” the hostess yelled.

“I can explain,” I said as I picked up my drink and followed the young girl into the dining room.

She led us to a table for two along the outside wall. A noisy table of four college-aged kids sat a few feet away, a couple we knew were next to them. I nodded in polite greeting. This was not the time to say hello.

Matt and I settled in seats across from one another. I noticed the gray in Matt’s temples, the lines near his eyes.

“I’m waiting, Adele,” Matt said in a low voice.

Ashamed, I admitted my on-line dating excursion. “It was a lark, I wasn’t really going to date anyone,” I whispered. “The matches were silly. Like Joe. I mean, come on. Joe?”

“You matched?”

A flare of vanity lit inside me. “Why wouldn’t I match?”

Matt sighed. “That’s not what I meant.” He waited for a moment and then said, “Are you not happy with us?”

Guilt flooded my heart. I was happy, wasn’t I?

The silence was alive between us. Not the comfortable kind, the dark and malevolent kind. We each took a sip of our drinks. I felt Matt’s eyes on me, assessing, weighing.

“I’ve thought about it, too,” he said, breaking the quiet.

“What?” I said.

“But I never went to a site, or filled out a profile,” he said.

“But, you wanted to? You wanted to date someone else?” I said. My heart slammed into my rib cage. What had I started? “Who? Who did you want to date?”

“Didn’t you want to?” he said.

“I…,” I started and then closed my mouth. He was right. I had wanted something, at some level, in some way, or I wouldn’t have filled out a profile.

But, here he was, my husband, not a photo and 15 or fewer words, but a man who had been with me through a broken leg, simultaneous toddlers, years of my cranky father criticizing his lawn mowing, and countless days of adventures, laughter, and kisses.

I put all that in jeopardy by being too curious, too interested in the thrill of shiny new toys.

“I’m sorry,” I said, leaning forward across the table. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, or even tell you. I was just curious.” I paused and took a deep breath. 

I took a deep breath and looked into Matt’s eyes. “Can I be honest?”

He nodded, holding my eyes with his. The clatter of the surrounding diners receded. It felt like a spotlight shone on the two of us alone, like a movie shot where the background blurs and you see the two stars.

I said slowly. “I think maybe I do want a spark of that new-love excitement. Not someone new, just something new. But only with one person. You,” I said. “I love you. And, I probably don’t tell you that enough.”

He smiled. “I love you, too, honey.”

I put my hand on the table and turned it palm up, and waited. It seemed like a long wait. The college kids laughed loudly. An infant wailed in the other room. Slowly, Matt placed his hand in mine. I squeezed hard. He squeezed back.

Relief replaced my anxiety. 

The dark clouds had lifted. I wondered where to take the conversation. How would we create sparks between people who knew each other for so long?

Matt jumped in. “What did your profile say?”

I smiled. “And I quote, ‘Sassy near-sixty-year-old who likes surprises, sleeping late on Sundays, and champagne in paper cups.’ It took me forever to write it.”

“Cute,” he said. “I like the sassy part. I think I could match with that.”

A young man approached our table. “Hello. I’m Brendon and I will be your server this evening. Are you ready to order?”

“Yes,” I said. “Two meatloaf dinners.” I smiled at Matt, and he nodded. Some things are worth keeping exactly the same. Brendon made a note on his pad.

“Anything to drink?” Brendon asked.

I looked at my glass of wine and Matt’s beer, both almost empty and opened my mouth to order more, but Matt spoke first.

“Yes. We’d like a bottle of champagne,” Matt said.

My eyebrows raised in surprise.

“And two paper cups.”