A Remote Chance

It’s pool weather outside. Beach weather. The kind of weather for summer lovin’ and hot fun. At least it would be, if there wasn’t a disease out there bad enough to generate nursery rhymes.

Maskes maskes they all fall down.

No, I shouldn’t even think about the virus. Or why I haven’t seen more masks with beaks. Or the weather. People fall back on the weather when there’s nothing going on. But the truth is, I’m out of practice carrying a conversation. And I need to figure out what to say.

I’ve spent days upon days at home, typing from my kitchen table and listening in on too many meetings to count. Feeling half a year pass me by with only body fat to show for it.

Since the past hundred workdays have evaporated into monotony, I’ve started venturing aimlessly into the open air, walking the dog as a plea for incidental human interaction.

Take, for example, a few days ago. Who knows how many? I rounded a corner and there was a passing wave from a stranger in the distance. The positive reinforcement made me do another lap.

When I got back I collapsed on the couch, too tired of television to turn it on. And I began rambling to my dog because there wasn’t anyone else around. And I unloaded to him like I am now to myself.

I told him I’d decided to spend that night the same way I had the past several nights.

“Decide” was a generous way to put it. It was more like falling in line to a monotonous march. Left, left, left, right, left. The motions toward love or the lack thereof. Probably not the exercise I needed, but it was at least a step toward making social distancing less distant.

Before I started the dating app crapshoot, I poured myself a drink – a watery beer I learned to brew when quarantine was new. In those early days, I’d tried to find new passions. It was unfortunate that three quarters of them were experimenting with alcoholism.

I’d cut back after a couple months of quarantinis didn’t stop the world from burning. It’s conclusive: cocktail hours don’t put out Molotov cocktails. Not even metaphorical ones. So, I just had the one beer.

And as I sipped, I didn’t think about drinks. I thought about the exercise I needed. About the people exercising the right to protest. About the brave ones trying to exercise our demons while others run interference. And I hoped the nation worked things out. Funny it takes a sickness for people to start realizing we were in poor health all along.

But me? I’ve only worked out my thumbs. Catching carpel tunnel of the soul. Left, left, left, right, left.

Alt Right, Radical Left. Swipe right, swipe left. Left wing, right wing. I usually swipe in opposite directions.

Which I know can’t be good for dialogue. Can’t be good for growth. You need both wings to fly. But I try not to think about that too much. And I just tell myself, "swiper keep swiping."

Because it seems healthy wading into the dating pool. Even if it’s Marco Poloing through a pool of digital faces and the waters are full of catfish. People say there are plenty of fish in the digital depths. But it’s all shallow. Shallower than thought. Shallower than breathing.

Nevertheless, each night I’m calling Marco.

To the one on the app that has comments: sorry in advance for the 2020 vision joke. I’m sure we’d have better chemistry in person. Not explosive or melt your face kind of chemistry, mind you. More like rubber cement or another concoction that grows stronger and more flexible over time. Hindsight is 2020. Talk to you never again.

Awkward and superficial interactions that go nowhere. There was a lot of that sort of thing before I matched with her. And when it happened, it was a relief because I’d worried the trick was just writing about TV and tacos and hoping that passed for a personality. Excluding very photogenic people, of course. There was no trick for them. Not even a pretend personality was required.

I’ve thought about that a lot lately. How our parents always said not to judge a book by its cover. And how proud they’d be to see us make snap judgements based on a handful of pictures and forced bios. Add it to the list of reasons my generation is failing. They can worry about that while we’re worried about everything else and making sure they don’t die of the virus.

And I see the irony of trying to ride the high road here. Because I’m guilty too. A la carting through an online meat market as if real connections were as simple as checking off boxes. I’m a hyperactive hypocritical hypochondriac, just like everyone else. But hyperactive hypocritical hypochondriacs get lonely too and I suspect they’ll never make a vaccine for that.

Over the course of the night I connected with her, I managed to make the same usual small talk. It was strikingly similar to conversations I’d had with several women I’d never heard from again. Forget concert venues and movie theaters. Dating apps are the real ghost towns. Insert tumbleweed emojis.

I did try to mix it up by gamifying the whole thing and using cleverish wordplay. But before I went to sleep, I couldn’t help but feel it was either too much or too little effort. Nice to know it worked.

The next morning, I walked a faux commute after accidentally sleeping in again. I wandered to a coffee shop and paid too much for a drink I could have made at home. Sent another message on the app. The barista and I made small talk and laughed politely, and the interaction ended. Really, that’s what I went there for.

As I went, I wondered about the barista. I wondered if she was single. I wondered whether it would be weird to keep showing up to talk to her in spurts. I wondered what her smile looked like behind the mask. I wondered and wandered home.

And I was surprised when the girl on the app messaged me back. I returned banter, wondering if she was as afraid of being alone for the end of the world as I am. And I crossed my fingers that this one was real. Unlike the one that taught me the hard way it’s better to meet in person.

That’s the catch. The ones who want to go out the most aren’t the type that’d work long term. Right? Total disregard for science and all that. But then again, half a year of my life has evaporated and I’m not getting any younger. Can’t inoculate yourself from aging.

Maybe the anti-maskers do have a point. I mean, if we’re going to survive, let’s live. Not to mention, remote dating isn’t remotely the same without physical contact.

Which is why I find myself going to places like coffee shops and grocery stores to pass the time and buy things I don’t need, telling myself I’m stimulating a failing economy when the truth is I’m the one who needs stimulus. It’s a remote chance, but I keep thinking maybe, just maybe…

Confession time. I’ve bought five books and three pieces of furniture thanks to casual conversation with essential workers needlessly putting themselves at risk. Didn’t need them, it just felt like I should purchase something after they indulged me.

That probably proves how fortunate I am, all things considered. So, I don’t mean to complain. It’s just a weird time being a single introvert with a neurotic streak. It’s a weird time being anyone, I guess.

Anyway, days passed from there. I kept chatting with her online, hope building against my will as I routinely scanned the real world. From what I can tell, she’s charming and bright. And righteously fierce like I’d want in a protest partner. Why she’s single is anyone’s guess.

We have enough shared interests to keep conversation going and it’s exhilarating to finally exhaust the small talk and connect. But best of all, we differ enough for it to be interesting. I don’t need more of myself after these past months. I’m sick of myself.

So, when I finally built up the nerve to ask, I wasn’t disappointed by the video date counteroffer. Cautious, sure. But somehow, it felt right. Maybe sitting in on hundreds of video meetings was training. Training for the moment just moments from now.

I almost canceled. Not because I wasn’t excited, but because I’m sure I’ll seem awkward and become preoccupied with my own appearance in the corner of the screen. Or worse, say something cringey like COVIDeo date.

So, I unload internally. Purge myself of the mental garbage beforehand. One thousand four hundred sixty-two words vomited into the void to remind myself why this is good for me. It doesn’t matter if it works out or not. It matters that we’re trying.

Just enjoy it, I tell myself. Embrace the madness of the moment.

I breath in and tap the video icon.