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// User: [email protected]

// Session: FRI_23:01

for (profile in availableMen) {

…. if (profile.age < 60) { swipeLeft(); }

…. if (profile.hands != "scarred") { swipeLeft(); }

…. if (profile.eyes != "gray") { swipeLeft(); }

…. if (profile.occupation != "billionaire_mob_boss") { swipeLeft(); }

…. if (profile.name = "Lukas Lazarev") { swipeRight(); }

}

Friday night finds me on my couch with a glass of Two Buck Chuck’s finest cabernet sauvignon in one hand and my phone in the other.

Jillian’s voice has been echoing in my head since our conversation on Wednesday.“Peek around. You don’t have to swipe on anyone. Just take a gander. Live a little.”

So here I am. Living a little. It’s not as glamorous as the movies make it out to be.

I open Hinge first. The interface is vaguely familiar from my last half-hearted attempt at finding love (or, if not love, then at least a half-decent hump). I update my photos, tweak my prompts, and start swiping.

Left. Left. Left. Left. Left.

A guy named Brooks who lists “crypto enthusiast” as his entire personality? That’s a left if I’ve ever seen one.

Dom, whose bio is just the word “entrepreneur” followed by fifteen rocket emojis? Hard left.

A shirtless mirror selfie from a manliterallynamed Chad. I don’t even need to read the bio? Left so fast that I almost hurl my phone across the room in the process.

Ugh.If this is “living a little,” I think I’m ready for the sweet embrace of death.

But I promised Jill I’d give this a fair shake. So I take a fortifying sip of wine and keep going.

Next up is Rory, 28, software engineer. There’s nothing immediately off-putting about him, so that jumps him straight to the top of the dog pile. His photos are fine. His prompts are fine. Everything about him is justfine. Fine in the way that vanilla soft serve is “fine.” Fine like graham crackers or reruns ofFriendsare “fine.”

I swipe right anyway.

After Rory comes Malcolm. He’s 31, works in finance. He looks nice enough. Normal. I bet he owns multiple pairs of khakis and has strong opinions about craft beer.

I try to imagine going on a date with Mr. Malcolm. Sitting across from him at some trendy restaurant, making small talk about work and hobbies and weekend plans.

The image just won’t form.

Instead, my brain keeps serving up gray eyes and silver hair, scarred hands gripping a steering wheel. A voice like sin-soaked gravel asking questions I don’t know how to answer.

Malcolm goes left.

This is ridiculous. Both the activity itself and my objections to it. It’s beyond absurd that this is how dating works in the twenty-first century. What happened to grand, sweeping,Wuthering Heightsromances, filled with forbidden touches and passionate side glances and ballroom dances?

Where’s the longing?

Where’s the lust?

Where are the pretty dresses?!