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

Back in the late ’90s, I was catfished by one of online dating’s earliest practitioners. The term hadn’t been invented yet, of course, but the con was already alive and well. AOL was everywhere, and the launch of its dating service turned many romantic hopefuls into kids in a candy store. It was new, intriguing, and seemed remarkably safe. Behind a computer screen, there was time to craft the perfect reply, polish away awkward first impressions, and let wit do the heavy lifting.

We could all present the best version of ourselves while sitting in our pajamas with a half-eaten bowl of ice cream parked beside the mouse. Screen names became personalities, clever banter replaced nervous small talk, and the uncertainty of a first meeting was postponed until much later. It felt like an improvement over traditional dating—until it wasn’t.

My catfish took to online dating like a duck to water, as did many people eager to camouflage an Achilles’ heel in a sea of universal imperfections. His happened to be his age—a tender spot for older men who lack the lure of deep pockets but still harbor an ardent desire for a younger, attractive woman.

To them, being judged by the number of solar rotations they’ve survived feels almost blasphemous. Shouldn’t accumulated wisdom, engaging conversation, and a body that still answers the bell be enough to entice a promising younger playmate? If reality disagrees, why not shave a decade—or two—from the truth?

This was long before smartphones became extensions of our hands or video chats could expose a deception in seconds. We placed an astonishing amount of faith in a single uploaded photograph, assuming that integrity had survived the journey from camera to computer. I posted a recent photo of myself. My catfish acknowledged that he was older than I was but led me to believe the gap was modest. In reality, it was closer to sixteen years. At least, that’s the figure I settled on. His age seemed to have multiple versions, each one as fluid as the last.

Women have long been accused of subtracting birthdays. Men, however, often seem to imagine they’re practicing a more sophisticated form of revisionist history, as though somewhere in the attic hangs a portrait absorbing the years on their behalf.

We agreed to meet halfway between our homes at a busy restaurant—a sensible precaution when arranging a rendezvous with someone known only by a screen name. In hindsight, “screen name” sounds less like the beginning of a romance and more like evidence introduced at a criminal trial.

I was nervous that evening, though not simply because I was about to meet a stranger. First dates, no matter how thoughtfully arranged, possess an uncanny ability to rattle even the most seasoned dater. I wore one of my more flattering suits for a weeknight and took comfort in knowing I looked very much like the recent photograph I’d posted. Whatever happened next, at least he wouldn’t have trouble recognizing me in a room full of strangers.

His photograph, as I was soon to discover, wasn’t quite as recent as advertised. It had a slightly faded, sepia cast to it, which wasn’t unusual in the years before digital photography. What should have caught my attention—but somehow didn’t—was the IBM Selectric typewriter sitting on the desk against which he casually leaned, in a photograph he claimed had been taken sometime in the mid-’90s.

Looking back, the picture was almost certainly taken in the early ’80s, roughly fifteen years before we met. The man in the photograph looked less like the man standing before me than someone who could have been his younger, more athletic brother. The thick mahogany hair, worn with a youthful Ted Danson flair, had given way to a full head of gray that curled with a hint of Cesar Romero. He was still an attractive man, and that wasn’t the issue. The problem was the disconnect between the image I had come to expect and the person who greeted me. For a moment I felt strangely disoriented, as though someone had spun me around three times and sent me off to pin the tail on the wrong donkey.

The moment we exchanged greetings, I saw it in his eyes. He knew that I knew. Behind his smile was the unmistakable vulnerability of a man waiting to see whether I would acknowledge the decades separating the photograph from the person standing before me.

I didn’t.

The silence was awkward, but it also felt like the kinder choice. Some moments call for honesty; others call for grace. As the evening unfolded, the misleading photograph became the least interesting thing about him. What proved far more unsettling were the figurative bones I could hear rattling around in his closet as we traded the Reader’s Digest versions of our lives.

For reasons I still occasionally question, I agreed to see him again—and then again. It wasn’t despite his audacity that I returned; it was because of it. I found myself oddly fascinated by someone willing to gamble so brazenly on a deception that could collapse the moment he walked through the door. I wanted to understand what kind of confidence—or desperation—made that seem like a reasonable strategy. Only years later did it occur to me that brazen confidence, by itself, isn’t necessarily an admirable trait. Ted Bundy possessed plenty of it, too.

Being vulnerable is the only path to genuine intimacy. The longer we live, the more likely we are to accumulate experiences we’d rather tuck out of sight, hoping no one will notice the dents and scratches that accompany a well-lived life. Yet those very imperfections are where authenticity resides. When we stop trying to edit ourselves into someone more desirable, we give others the chance to know us as we are—not as we wish we had been. Strange as it seems, that is where acceptance begins, and where love has its best chance to take root.