In March, when the stay-at-home order came down with a thud, I found myself in a relationship that quickly became more intense and consuming than any I’d had for a decade. I’d recently met a man on a dating site who seemed “possible,” if not a perfect match. In other times, we might have had a few dates and found a reason to drift away. But this was dating in the time of Covid. It was as if we were the only two people on an island. We looked for common

interests, shared some laughs, and, most surprisingly, found the physical chemistry was off the charts After quarantining for 14 days to make sure we didn’t have Covid, we came together and our second date lasted three days.

The same thing happened to my friend, Jackie, who’d met a guy the day before the shutdown. One month into our relationships, the four of us met for a barbecue with social distance in her yard. As the guys bumped elbows and walked toward the grill, out of earshot, Jackie and I burst out laughing. We were both a little shocked. I’m tall, and my guy, Adam, is a head shorter and weighs ten pounds less than I. We’re an odd-looking couple. Equally odd: Jackie’s an opera singer in Denver, and her guy is a marine vet who’s never heard of Madame Butterfly.

“The music stopped, and this is where we landed,” Jackie said with a laugh. But it was working, and we were happy.

The desert-island syndrome also seems to be working for a number of married people. Some I know report becoming closer and more grateful to have each other. One friend, Karen, said, “You have no choice except to make the best of it. There aren’t any other trains to catch.”

In our culture, divorcing and living single have never been easier, and coupling has never seemed more elusive. A number of TV shows are trying unorthodox ways to address the difficulty of finding a life partner. Married at First Sight and Love is Blind on Netflix show people who meet each other for the first time when they’re walking down the aisle. Netflix’s Indian Matchmaking and Love on the Spectrum use outside “experts” to help people—in the latter case, people with autism—connect.

The shows are currently hitting a nerve, showing us how quickly we may pass on someone after a brief meeting, because of the illusion fostered by dating sites that there’s a limitless pool out there.  As Hank Stuever wrote in the Washington Post:  “The idea of marrying a complete stranger seems no more ludicrous than the ways we’ve already been conducting our relationships in the Internet age, swiping our way to permanent solitude.”

 Perhaps the pandemic is teaching us there’s a different way: that we can learn to work with what’s in front of us. To appreciate—and even come to love—someone who’s right there, instead of holding out for something better.

Commitment has always been slippery for me. I’ve been married twice, and had other long relationships, but I’ve never, in my heart, been all the way in. I could always see what was missing, the flaw, and I’d wonder if there wasn’t someone better around the corner.

Most of the people I met on Match.com had similar tendencies. They write, in their profiles, that they want “a partner, a best friend, a lover,” and most of them, consciously or not, are terrified of intimacy and the pain of rejection. We decide, at first sight, if it’s a “possible” or not. And if the encounter has been fun, full of promise, and we parted with a kiss that’s electric, one of us will immediately disappear.

I decided I was finished with all that. Right before the pandemic, before canceling my subscription, I made one last sweep of the men of a certain age range and location, sent out a bunch of messages, and got four replies.

The first showed up at a coffee bar with a flea-bitten dog who had a protruding collar around his neck because of an infection. Both of them looked as if they hadn’t bathed in weeks. Number two turned out to be a hoarder who hadn’t let go of a shoe since high school. The third canceled the date after looking me up online.

Then it came down to number four. “Possible,” I thought, when I spotted him in the restaurant. He was well-read, lively, loved the same music as I, and at the end of the meal, we agreed to have a second date.

But the shut-down happened before that date. For two weeks we exchanged a flood of texts, discussed safe sex on WhatsApp, and when we finally met up, it was better than we’d allowed ourselves to hope.

I’d had a long drought of intimacy before the shutdown, and feared I might never be touched again. Neither Adam nor I had conceived of the possibility that we would have, in our 70’s, the best physical relationship of our lives.

But being older requires some accommodations. I can’t hear him if he whispers in my ear. I have to get up and put in my hearing aids, if I can remember where I put them. At times, he’ll ask, “Can we take a quick break? I may have to use my blood pressure medicine.”

Jackie was having the same high-octane experience. We’d been spending weekends ensconced with these men, shutting off the phones and ordering in food. We were amazed at our luck, grateful for the sex and companionship. I didn’t see Adam as a life partner or envision living together, but when I expressed this, he became upset and ran. I had to cajole him back with long conversations, during which we we drew closer, and I began to realize that I very much wanted him in my life.

I’d like to say two things. One: when the body is happy, it’s easier to coax the mind to shut up and stop kvetching. Two: for most women, at least for me, it’s impossible to have great sex without a sense of emotional connection and feelings of, yes, love.

At one point, Adam asked, “Is it hard for you to say, ‘I love you?’”

“Yes.” Then I tried, haltingly, “I love you.” But in my mind, my fingers were crossed.

Meanwhile, all around us, disaster was raging. People were losing their jobs, their homes, their lives. People who were single, especially in New York City, said that loneliness and touch deprivation were “excruciating.” Grandparents were in agony if they don’t live near their grandchildren. I hadn’t seen mine—four kids under age seven—in six months, which is like half a lifetime for them. They’re growing and evolving fast, and there isn’t a day that my heart doesn’t ache because I’m missing that.

The widespread pain underscored for me the importance of holding close to those who are near. People we may have once dismissed too quickly could be potential partners, or at least friends, a support system.

Most of us long for people who share our values, ideas, and habits. At times when I become painfully aware of the differences between Adam and me, I’ll start to think, this is ridiculous, it can’t last. Adam is from Mississippi, and his slowness of speech drives me crazy. When I ask a question, minutes may go by—sometimes two or three—while I hang there, waiting. He has to think through what he’s going to say and if it doesn’t seem right, rephrase it. I come from a culture where people talk fast and off the cuff, interrupting, laughing, and you have to fight to hold the floor.

At such moments, I tell myself to take a deep breath and try to let go of the issue. How important is it, truly? I’m trying to focus on the positive, to cultivate acceptance of our differences, and to practice patience. These are great lessons, even if they’re coming late. Some of us just have to be put on a desert island to learn them.

So if you’re navigating the shutdown with a partner, or if you’re going it alone, try to start and finish each day by naming what you’re grateful for. You’re alive and you’re still standing. Love the one you’re with, most importantly, yourself. As the Buddha said, we’re all suffering, and as the Hindu gurus say, love is the strongest force there is.

I’m reminded of what Leonard Cohen told the audience at the end of every concert on his tour in 2009. He was in his 70s, and people cheered when he came skipping onto the stage, wearing a dark gray suit and a fedora. He closed the show with a benediction: “May you be surrounded by family and friends…” He paused. “And if this is not your lot, may the blessings find you in your solitude.”

For all of us, I wish that.