Imagine this romantic comedy scene: A tall, attractive man approaches an effortlessly beautiful woman in the frozen food aisle of a grocery store. He is captured by her quizzical gaze as she studies a row of potential options, yet to realize that the man she’ll marry is eyeing her just beyond the frozen pizzas.
The man walks over to her slowly. An idea strikes. Reaching for a box of Amy’s frozen mac and cheese and with a coy smile, he asks her, “Could you imagine the pasta-bilities if we got a drink together this weekend?” She looks up at him with her porcelain face and bats her long, polished lashes. Romantic music heavily featuring a violin starts to play as she reaches for a bag of frozen baby spinach. She replies, “I be-leaf I’m free this Saturday.”
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If the screenplay for this movie were being written today — by a self-quarantined writer inspired by the current state of the grocery store — this would play out a little differently.
In a more realistic scene: Our exhausted and anxious protagonists would be determined to gather their groceries quickly after having waited in line for an hour to enter the store. The man wouldn’t have a chance to be captivated by the woman’s lovely face hidden under a mask. They would be careful to stay a cautious six feet away and reluctant to make eye contact. There would not be asking someone out to a bar, or anywhere, for that matter.
Depressing as it may seem, the days of serendipitous moments of meeting your soulmate are gone. No more meet-cutes. No longer will you have the chance to run into your future partner at the coffee shop, at the bar, at the gym, at a concert, at a bookstore. The only place you’ll be meeting someone is online. That is just the reality.
But, dare I argue: Is that really so bad?
Did life ever actually play out like in a rom-com? Or did we just like to imagine the possibility that it could?
Perhaps you’ve daydreamed, while fumbling through piles of rock-hard avocados at Trader Joe’s, that an attractive stranger and you both land on the only ripe avocado at the same time. A powerful electric love current flows through their hand into yours. You share the avocado in the parking lot as the sun sets over the freeway overpass.
But truthfully, when was the last time an attractive stranger approached you and you were happy about it? When was the last time you approached someone and it went well?
In reality, the interaction is more likely to play out like this: A man twice your age stares garishly at your ass as you peruse the limes. You can feel his invasive gaze on you as you walk away. As you’re checking out, he approaches and asks you a question. “Would you like to join me in my car?”
“Keep walking, buddy!” the cashier then shouts with the authority of a Bostonian father of 12 virgin daughters.
Or at least, that’s what happened to me the last time I went to Trader Joe’s before the pandemic.
And a good example of why I don’t usually leave the house without earbuds in. Long before the virus hit, I kept to myself in public — I prefer to mute my surroundings and stay blissfully ignorant.
And while that may mean I repel some perfectly nice man with perfectly pleasant things to say, that perfectly nice man was probably never going to say anything anyway. It’s rare, I’ve found from my own experience and my friends’, for a well-intentioned man to approach you to chat casually, or somehow ask you out on a whim like we may daydream about.
Even if a guy was interested in talking to me, he would probably be too concerned with coming across as creepy or that his first line would fall flat. Or, more likely, he would also be too busy drowning out his surroundings to notice me in the first place.
Serendipitous dating has been dying for years. Covid-19 just sealed its fate.
Sure, we’ve all locked eyes with an attractive stranger on the bus, both feeling an inexplicable chemistry. But then the moment is gone. You look out the window, and he pretends to read an article on his phone. Neither of you approaches the other. Because who among us is so self-assured that they would confidently cross a moving bus to approach a stranger?
But what could actually happen: Later that night, on opposite sides of the city, you both flick through Hinge with impressive dexterity. You swipe through the city’s offerings like you’re playing Fruit Ninja. You’re both looking for each other.
It’s not the meet-cute from the rom-com. But if you think about it, flipping through an infinite deck of cards for the one you only got a glimpse of is pretty cute, too.
It doesn’t matter to me that I met someone through a calculated decision based on six photos on a dating app a conversation about breadsticks. The story of “how we met” isn’t important. What’s important is that I hide letters in his pockets and that he makes me kimchi from scratch because he knows it’s my favorite.
Your dream of falling in love by the loose olives in the Whole Foods hot bar may be dead for the foreseeable future, or forever. But isn’t it all the stuff that happens after that matters anyway?
Humans love the idea of finding someone serendipitously because it makes us feel like the universe is conspiring to make us happy. That’s nice, but if the universe cared about anything it would probably be climate change or black holes or something that’s not your relationship status. And why give the universe so much power over your life?
Right about now, I think we all would like to feel a little more in control.
So download that app.
Go on that Zoom date.
Plan a socially distanced walk for when restrictions ease up.
It’ll be cute later.
