“Man is not what he thinks he is, he is what he hides.” (André Malraux)

Back in the late 90’s, I was catfished by an online dating early adopter.  AOL was fast becoming the tech darling of email and instant messaging, and the introduction of their dating site brought forth the kid in the candy store for many a romantic hopeful.  It was new and intriguing, and it provided a veneer of safety behind a screen that allowed for clever responses and a deliberation of thought to lead the way.  We could present ourselves to a potential date as the better version of ourselves, all while sitting in our pajamas with a half-eaten bowl of ice cream to the side of our mouse.  First impressions had a chance to relax, allowing our attentive screen name and flirty banter to do the talking. 

My catfish seemed to take to online dating like a duck to water, as did most people who hoped to camouflage an Achilles heel in a sea of universal imperfections.    In his case it was his age, a tender spot that seems to get in the way of older men who do not have the lure of deep pockets, yet an ardent desire for a younger, attractive woman.  In their conclusion, it is blasphemous that they should be judged on how many solar rotations around the earth they have witnessed; shouldn’t their expanded intellect and still-functioning manhood be sufficient to lure such promising younger playmates?

Since this was prior to the superabundance of smartphones and the ability to video chat, online hopefuls had to rely on the integrity of an uploaded photo to a profile.  I shared a recent photo of myself.  While my catfish admitted to being an older man to my younger woman, he led me to believe it was within a modest age bracket when it came to the discrepancy.  In truth, it was approximately 16 years.  I don’t think I’ll ever know our actual age difference, since there were versions attached to his age.  As with women who distort the number of birthdays they have had, male counterparts tend to think of themselves as more sophisticated in duplicity, with an imaginary painting in their mind’s attic to help dispel the disillusion.

We agreed to meet at a midway point between where we lived, and in a well populated establishment.  I was nervous the night of our blind date.  Not only because I was about to meet a stranger who I only knew by screen name – which in hindsight had a ring of lechery to it – but because it was a first date.  First dates, regardless of how comfortably planned, retain the ability provoke anxiety in even the most seasoned dater.  I wore one of my more flattering suits for a weeknight and felt secure in the knowledge that I closely resembled the recent photo I had shared.  I was confident that he could identify me in a sea of unknown faces.

His photo, as I was to discover, was not as recent.  Uploaded, it had a slightly worn, sepia tone to it which wasn’t so unusual for pre-digital times. What was more unusual, and what my ordinarily observant eye seemed to miss, was the IBM Selectric typewriter in the background, resting on the desk which he was leaning, a desk that was alleged to have been photographed sometime in the mid-90’s.   The photo was likely taken in the early 80’s, about 15 years prior to our meeting, and the man in it resembled what could have been his younger, more athletic brother.  The mahogany brown hair displayed with a youthful Ted Danson-esque edge to it now belonged to a man who was fully gray with a Cesar Romero bent.  It’s not to say he wasn’t a nice-looking man, he was, but seeing him in person in comparison to the image that had been ingrained in my mind left me feeling slightly disoriented, as if someone had spun me around and pushed me to pin the tail on the donkey. 

Upon saying hello, I immediately saw the vulnerability in his eyes, waiting to see if I would mention the disparity between the photo version and live in-person man standing before me.  I did not.  It was an awkward moment, a moment that required grace to lessen the tension.  What became more unsettling as the night progressed rather than a misleading photo, were the bones I heard rattling around in his closet as we shared the Reader’s Digest versions of our lives.  Through a decision I occasionally question, I went on a few successive dates with him.  I think it was his ability to flagrantly try to pass a decades-plus photo as recent, and the willingness to brave the consequences, which swayed my decision to see him again.  If for no other reason, I was curious as to what propelled this oddly attractive gravitas.  I’ve since come to realize that Ted Bundy had a similar moxie, but that didn’t register at the time. 

Being vulnerable is the only path to true intimacy.  The longer we live, the more we acquire experiences we would prefer to shield from the eyes of the world.  It is in our imperfections that our true self resides, knowing that in our humanness comes the chance to experience a greater acceptance and share a deeper love with those we are meant to be with.