The most popular, provocative, and unforgettable essays from the past fifteen years of the New York Times “Modern Love” column—including stories from the anthology series starring Tina Fey, Andy Garcia, Anne Hathaway, Catherine Keener, Dev Patel, and John Slattery A young woman goes through the five stages of ghosting grief. A man’s promising fourth date ends in the emergency room. A female lawyer with bipolar disorder experiences the highs and lows of dating. A widower hesitates about introducing his children to his new girlfriend. A divorcée in her seventies looks back at the beauty and rubble of past relationships. These are just a few of the people who tell their stories in Modern Love, Revised and Updated, featuring dozens of the most memorable essays to run in The New York Times “Modern Love” column since its debut in 2004.   Some of the stories are unconventional, while others hit close to home. Some reveal the way technology has changed dating forever; others explore the timeless struggles experienced by anyone who has ever searched for love. But all of the stories are, above everything else, honest. Together, they tell the larger story of how relationships begin, often fail, and—when we’re lucky—endure.   Edited by longtime “Modern Love” editor Daniel Jones and featuring a diverse selection of contributors, this is the perfect book for anyone who’s loved, lost, stalked an ex on social media, or pined for true romance: In other words, anyone interested in the endlessly complicated workings of the human heart. Featuring essays by: Veronica Chambers • Terri Cheney • Deborah Copaken • Trey Ellis • Jean Hanff Korelitz • Ann Hood • Mindy Hung • Amy Krouse Rosenthal • Ann Leary • Andrew Rannells • Larry Smith • Ayelet Waldman • and more! Daniel Jones,  who since 2004 has edited the weekly “Modern Love” column in  The New York Times,  is also the author of  Love Illuminated,  advisor to the  Modern Love  podcast, and consulting producer for the  Modern Love  streaming series. He lives in Northampton, Massachusetts, and in New York City. Single, Unemployed, and Suddenly Myself Marisa Lascher I was thirty-­seven, single, unemployed, and depressed because in a couple of months I was going to be moving out of my studio apartment on East 23rd Street in Manhattan and in with my mother in Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn. Since taking a buyout at my Wall Street firm, I had devoted myself to two activities: searching for a new job and working out. And I spent a lot of time in my apartment. So did the three recent college graduates next door. At their weekend parties, a loud bass penetrated our shared wall starting at 10:30 p.m. In sweats, no makeup, and with my hair piled in a bun, I would go out and ring their bell around 11 p.m. (early, even by my geriatric standards) to ask them to quiet down. One of them would appear, flush with alcohol and annoyance, and promise to turn it down. Usually they did. When they didn’t, I would call the doorman, the management company, and, once, the police. But the noise con­tinued. My 23rd Street building was near three colleges. When I signed the lease, I didn’t realize the place had so many student renters, people who understandably liked to party. Yet it was the least social time in my life. Most of my friends were married. I had no income, and rent was almost $3,000 a month. I wasn’t dating because I hadn’t figured out how to positively spin my unemployment story. One afternoon in the elevator, I saw one of the guys from next door in jeans and a T-­shirt, his dark hair slightly receding. “Are you always around in the middle of the day?” he asked. “For the last few months I have been,” I said. “I’m job searching.” “I am too,” he said. “It’s my last year of law school.” “Never leave a job without another,” I told him. People had warned me about this, but it was only after I’d done it that I realized how true it was. As we neared our doors, I said, “I’m moving out, so you guys can blast your music all night long. The mean old lady is leaving.” “Why?” he asked. “I can’t afford this any longer. I’m moving in with my mom in Brooklyn.” “That sucks,” he said, then added: “It’s not me blasting music. It’s my roommates.” Which made sense. He was always the kindest and most apologetic when I got angry. “How old are you guys?” I said. “Like, twenty-­three?” “Yeah, well, I’m twenty-­three,” he said. “I’m thirty-­seven. So I hope you get a younger neighbor the next go-­round.” “I never would have guessed thirty-­seven,” he said. “I thought you were, like, twenty-­six.” Was he sweet-­talking me? I looked the same age as my friends, but maybe the dormlike context had fooled him. That afternoon we ran into each other again; he was in a suit headed to an interview. I wished him luck. Two weeks later, my friend Diana and I were sitting at a nearby bar, drinking vodka sodas, and looking at her Tinder app, when my twenty-­three-­year-­old neighbor popped up. “Swipe