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 don’t like being dumped. None of us do. So, when I look back at the bravest, most romantic commitment I ever made, I wonder if I knew at that moment that this was the human for me. If I knew that I was making the choice to stand by his side for the toughest year of our lives — or if I just really, really didn’t want to get dumped.
I met my partner back in January of 2020 at a concert I didn’t have a ticket to. I was a music journalist with zero credentials at the time, so in lieu of a badge, I wore glasses and a crisp, striped button-down shirt, and I put on my best “I belong here” face.
When I got inside, I found a partial floating bar area to semi-stand/awkward-lean against, and I perched there rigidly until I got my bearings. My boyfriend-to-be walked up to the counter about 20 minutes into the opening act to dispose of his empty drink.
This small act of spatial overlapping was all we needed to spark our great love affair. I snagged the opportunity to get his attention. (If you ask me, I did so by delivering the perfect witty pickup line with flawless timing and a demure smile; if you ask him, I got his attention by throwing trash at his head. Both are true statements.)
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January and February were magical months. We celebrated Valentine’s Day with fried chicken and horror films. I dressed up like a shipwreck the first time I hung out with his friend group at a recycled-materials-themed outdoor dance party. We discovered that my bachelorette bed was not quite big enough to sleep the both of us, but that welcomed nights of mandatory snuggling. We spent five straight days crafting costumes and eating King Cake and parading around with strangers and loved ones over Mardi Gras week.
Then came March. March 2020. I lost my survival job at the art gallery. The headquarters of the music magazine I wrote for shuttered its doors. People were starting to get scared. I was feeling defeated. I did my best impression of a person ready for a sexy date night. I made dinner. I dressed up. I sat with my thoughts, and I waited. I waited for him to walk through the door. Instead, my phone rang.
“I don’t really know how to say this,” he started.
“Don’t. Don’t say whatever you’re about to say,” I thought, gritting my teeth and getting ready to cry.
“My job puts me at high risk, and that’s a choice that I’ve made as a nurse practitioner, but it’s not a choice that you’ve made, and I’m not entirely sure that I’m comfortable exposing you, even if you are, so, we can still have Zoom call dates and meet up outdoors, as long as we keep a six-foot distance between us, but I want to give you space and the time to think about all of this and decide what you want,” he said.
I took 10 days to mull it over, a risky move so early in the relationship, but he was right: There were serious things to consider. No one knew a whole lot about how the disease was being spread or how to protect themselves from it effectively, and his clinic was about to be turned into a Covid-19 testing site.
We had one distance date in that time where he rode his bike to my apartment and then used the bike as a makeshift barrier to make sure we were a full six-feet apart while we walked. It wasn’t a bad date. It was a sunny day. I got to see his face. We said witty things.
I highly recommend outdoor park strolling interactions for early-stage relationships. It’s a great way to get to know someone safely. I was charmed. But we weren’t in the early stages of our relationship anymore, and I went home aching at the idea of not being able to kiss him or touch his hand or move forward with our shared lives for some nebulous amount of months.
So, I chose him. I chose to see fewer friends because I was at higher risk. I chose to mask religiously and wash my hands until my knuckles turned red. I chose to ignore that longing to get on a plane and go be with my parents. I chose to take all of the precautions, all of the time, even when others were being lax.
I made the right choice.
We’re a year in, and my loved ones are safe. I’m safe. He’s safe. We moved in together. He’s never missed a patient, never had to take a sick day.
We’ve developed systems: air kiss at the door, scrubs in the washer, shower, then a real “hello.” We do daily check-ins. We make balanced meals. We breathe.
The emotional and mental strain of his job has been enormous. Providing health care under the best of circumstances is a daunting task. What we didn’t account for is that I would have a lot of really rough days, too. Turns out, being a musician who performs music, reviews music, and interviews musicians doesn’t translate well during a worldwide pandemic where music venues are closed and festivals are canceled.
This pandemic year has pulled enormous amounts of strength, love, and restraint that I didn’t know I had up to the surface. It has made me stay put and sit with my choices. I miss concerts. I miss bars. I miss my family. I miss pulling all-nighter catch-up sessions with friends.
But I would choose these new traditions of dancing in socks to a record, playing Frisbee in secluded spots, weaving in and out of each others’ space with cutting boards while we make meals together, talking to our plant babies to help them grow, and checking-in on our hearts and our minds whether the world was in the state it was currently in or whether it was not.
