Blythe Roberson, a comedy writer, is the author of “How to Date Men When You Hate Men” and, most recently, “America the Beautiful?”

I never would have consented to having a boyfriend if covid hadn’t forced me.

More precisely: I would have had a boyfriend for about three months and then bailed, which is what I was about to do in March 2020.

I was 29 and had been dating in New York City for my entire adult life, which had meant, in the best-case scenario, going to a man’s house once a week, having sex, maybe ordering food and then going home. It wasn’t just that I was particularly attracted to men incapable of emotional intimacy, though duh. It was also that I and all the young people I knew were immersed in “hookup culture,” a phrase that I hate but that is also, sadly, accurate.

Before covid-19, we dated a lot of people at once and took our time before picking just one and settling down. It’s what biological anthropologist Helen Fisher describes as “slow love.” Though in my case, I hadn’t ever reached the “love” part. And after years of dating this way, I, too, was becoming a guy incapable of emotional intimacy.

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In my late 20s, I decided I should at least try to call someone my boyfriend. So I picked a guy. And right away, I found the experience mortifying. Who was this person who seemed so hot and fun on the surface but who also made baffling decisions, who took so long to get ready to go anywhere, who was, inconveniently, an entire human being?

We were dating long distance; he was in Milwaukee. But in March 2020, I decided I didn’t like being so tied to a person outside of me, especially when there were so many other options, so I flew to see him, thinking I would probably end it.

Then covid happened. And who dumps their boyfriend on the cusp of a global catastrophe?

Instead, I delayed my return to New York City. And soon enough, for all intents and purposes, we moved in together.

Love at six feet

Dating long distance, we’d basically lived together anytime we were in the same state. But living together for three days is very different from living together with no end point in the middle of a historic period whose defining feature is “you can legally hang out only with your housemates.”

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Before my boyfriend, I’d spent the night at a man’s home almost exclusively in the case of an unforeseen major weather event. I’d worry: What if my tossing and turning annoys this guy? What if I fart in my sleep?

With my boyfriend, I learned the joys of cuddling without a clock ticking in the back of my mind. I learned how nice it is to spend a morning thinking you’re falling for someone, even if those feelings are just the reflected glow of the fact that you’re eating breakfast — objectively the best meal of the day.

One of the true joys of long-distance relationships is that when you’re together, you’re together all the time. (Others might find that unbearable, but I find it mostly incredible.) That constant togetherness was especially true during the covid years.

So much of our day involved things I’d have gone to great lengths to avoid doing with a lover in New York. We took care of my boyfriend’s roommate when he got covid, scared for a second that he was dying because his kidney hurt, until we remembered the roommate slept on a futon mattress on the bare floor, and so we “cured his covid” with a better mattress.

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We dealt with the reality that we were going to have to poop while the other person was in the house. My boyfriend didn’t care about this, but I’m apparently an adult woman ashamed of having a human body. (My boyfriend bought me incense matches as a show of encouragement.)

And for long stretches, we sat around doing nothing. We watched movies I didn’t care about or did a mushroom puzzle until 2 a.m., even though it was making us furious, or sat in his backyard staring at the same rabbit every day until we named it Baby Bun Bun.

In New York, I never stayed at someone’s house if things were boring. We were all busy as hell, so I was careful to never overstay my welcome, to never seem anything less than thrilling at all times.

How has the pandemic changed dating? Here are 7 tips for getting back out there.

During covid, I learned that even if I was not constantly thrilling, even if my boyfriend and I were genuinely different in all the ways that had originally mortified me, at the end of the day, I just liked spending time with him.

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I know I wasn’t alone in this accelerated intimacy. Some of my friends either moved in with their existing partner or met someone on an app and started living with them on the second date. Relationships moved fast in a way that was clearly insane, but the world was insane, so why not?

Of course, in “normal times,” relationships aren’t just about whether the two of you work in a vacuum. Relationships have to work in the context of both your individual lives. And so, because neither of us wanted to move permanently to the other’s city, my relationship with my first boyfriend, as much as I adore him, did not work.

I was in two more long-distance things after that, the first during the delta variant wave, the second with a guy I messaged on Hinge on Day 8 or 9 of my omicron isolation, when I was desperate to be in the same room with another human. Those relationships are over now, and although I still wear a mask on the subway and wash my hands instead of touching every gross thing in the city and then immediately eating a sandwich, in most ways, the “covid-y” part of life feels over now, too.

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But I’m so grateful for how quickly I built intimacy with those men.

Without the pandemic restrictions, I don’t think I would know that after my sweetheart cooks us food, I love doing all his dishes. (I decided this actually is feminist.) I told each of those three men that I love them. Without covid, I’m not sure when I would have gotten there.

Pandemic love, lost and found

Modern society is alienating and certainly not designed to encourage us to be intimate. I’ve been back to dating in New York for about six months now, on all the apps — Hinge, Raya (the app for celebrities), Feeld (the app for perverts) — swiping, setting up first dates that feel like job interviews, spending a few hours with a guy, maybe even going to his house and then going home.

I miss the forces beyond our control that made so many of us rash, so inclined to rush into things. Life’s short, and I don’t want to spend any more time than I have to in the crappiest phase of dating, trying to jam six lovers into my calendar and constantly riding the subway to and from everyone’s homes.

Three years out from March 2020, I have learned something: I’m a guy who is capable of emotional intimacy. That’s not nothing. And I can’t wait to do another man’s dishes.

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