Pandemic Dating Diaries
The Pandemic Dating Diaries is a TBI series that features moments in love, dating, and sex during Covid-19 directly from our readers. Have a story you’d like to submit? Email us or DM us on Twitter or Instagram.
I was on a dating sabbatical when the pandemic hit. I had just come off of a casual relationship with a guy who had bad tattoos, no duvet cover, and built skateparks for a living. A half-hour into our first date, I knew we weren’t compatible, but he was goofy and earnest and always excited to see me. I decided I needed to experience a relationship with someone who liked me more than I liked them. Turns out that one neutral party doesn’t inspire commitment from the other, and it ended a week before Valentine’s Day.
Combined with a few mediocre first dates that followed and the cocktail of mild anxiety and depression that coronavirus was serving up globally, courtship was the last thing on my mind. As a maximizer who famously crammed an exhausting number of dinners with friends, group fitness classes, and drink dates into the workweek, I saw the shutdown as a chance to slow down and explore introversion.
I embraced a makeup detox, regular REM cycles, and renewed interest in cooking that lockdown prescribed. My apartment became the Swiss Army knife of locales: home, gym, office, bar. I learned to find joy in tasks previously categorized as mundane, looked forward to errands like they were adventures, and attempted to reframe all the time alone as self-care.
But by June my tie-dyed sweats began to fade and Zoom happy hours had become a chore. What started as a welcomed vacation from the daily stresses of living a busy, hedonistic life had become a purgatory of monotony. I missed all aspects of regular life but was especially nostalgic for nights out: dressing up, buying overpriced drinks, bonding with strangers in line for the bathroom.
Every evening indoors felt more agonizing than the last. I was growing increasingly concerned that my collection of Glossier lipsticks would dry up before I’d have the chance to use them again. If I had known the guy I went on a date with just before lockdown would be the last male contact I’d have for six months, I would have absolutely slept with him… again.
On a particularly lonely Saturday night, triggered by a friend’s quarantine engagement, I opened my favorite dating app. (This is much like having a favorite dental floss; sure, technically I have a preference, but it in no way makes the task more enjoyable.) I was surprised to see so many profiles updated to include mentions of antibodies and socially distanced dates. While my Instagram feed was evidence enough that millennials were largely ignoring stay-at-home orders, I didn’t assume that necessarily translated into dating. While I doubted their motivations were romantic (were they ever), I was still excited to see so many eligible bachelors within my zip code.
Maybe like Rihanna, I too could find love in a hopeless place.
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Swiping was one thing; agreeing to go on a date was something else entirely. Like everyone else, I had just spent months acclimating to a Black Mirror version of reality where “stranger danger” had a whole new meaning. Was dating worth having a cotton swab shoved up my nose on a recurring basis? Maybe not. Was it worth the judgment of my hypercautious roommate? Definitely not. Was it worth elevating my exposure to a life-threatening illness plaguing the globe? Not even a little bit. But it’s incredible the lengths one will go to when severely bored and horny.
Enter my first Covid date.
After a few witty text exchanges and a pre-date phone call that lasted for seven(!) hours, I was going into the night with a level of unbridled enthusiasm I hadn’t experienced since the words “first date” were followed by “ever.” I mellowed this out with a large glass of pinot noir which I drank as I listened to Lizzo and tried on the same two outfits four different times. It was a scene so basic that I would’ve been embarrassed if I weren’t so amped.
I met him at a park just after 8 p.m. It was one of those summer evenings where the warmth of the day still hung in the air. He brought beers and I brought the blanket. I teased him about his haircut (he needed one) and he told me I smelled good (I did). When the beer cans were empty and there was no longer a need to be upright, he suggested we stargaze. We peered up and after a single quiet moment, realized there were no stars to gaze at and laughed in unison. Then he went in for a kiss.
We spent the next hour doing an uncanny impression of Annoyingly Affectionate Park Couple before walking back to his house hand-in-hand. I won’t say that I had a plan for the evening, but I will say that I shaved my legs when I knew I’d be wearing pants. Perhaps under other circumstances, we would’ve stopped at a bar — stoke the fire, give me a chance to tweeze the blades of grass out of my hair. But this was a Covid date and there were no rules. Or rather, there were many rules, but we’d already broken all of them.
Regret didn’t come the next morning, but it did the morning after that. It had been 36 hours since I’d shared a cigarette with a man on his fire escape; why did my throat still feel scratchy? Did I have a fever or was it just hot in my apartment? As the Sunday scaries crept in, so did my Covid fears. I found myself in a familiar post-date shame spiral, doom scrolling WebMD, and oscillating between worry and guilt. I drank a liter of Emergen-C as if Dr. Fauci had prescribed it, and listened to a sleep podcast in an attempt to muffle my anxious thoughts.
I woke up early the next day and still felt sick. I went immediately to urgent care. I sat in a waiting room full of people and wondered how many of them were about to test positive for Covid-19. Eventually, my name was called, and I was led to a tiny room and told to wait for the attending physician. I sat in a chair that creaked every time I crossed and uncrossed my legs. On the wall hung a poster that illustrated how Covid transmission is reduced significantly when two parties wear a mask. Not illustrated was the risk of transmission when two people touch tongues in a park but I assumed it was high. I closed my eyes tightly and let out a sigh.
Seven agonizing minutes later, the doctor entered the room. She was young and confusingly chipper given the setting. When she asked what brought me in, I confessed that I thought I might have the virus and outlined my symptoms: sore throat, headache, a fever of 102. “Hmm,” she said, “that doesn’t sound like Covid, but it does present differently in different people. Do you have any reason to believe you were in contact with someone who was infected?”
I grimaced, and as if I was in a church confessional, proceeded to describe the date I’d had two nights before in far too much detail.
I braced for a lecture or judgy scowl, but her bedside manner remained unchanged. She grabbed a long cotton swab and asked me to open my mouth. “I thought that went up my nose?” I said, confused.
“It would if I were testing you for Covid. But I think you have strep.”
“Strep throat?”
“Yes.”
I stuck out my tongue and she inserted the swab as my eyes welled up and I tried not to gag. Within a few minutes, a rapid test confirmed that her suspicions were right. On my walk home, I rejoiced — maybe the first time in history that someone celebrated a strep throat diagnosis. Then I winced because it still felt like I was swallowing knives.
I spent the rest of that week taking penicillin and thanking the universe for the near-miss. As for the guy, I was so relieved that he didn’t give me Covid that I couldn’t care less that he gave me strep — an illness that should be reserved for 13-year-olds who share mall Slurpees. Unfortunately, the situation didn’t exactly lay the foundation for a legendary romance, and ultimately, we never saw each other again.
