Dating during the pandemic

Photo by Shaira Dela Peña on Unsplash

I used to be a star dater. By that I mean, I have been dating for most of my adult life. And before that too. I enjoyed it. I got good at it.

My first date was in ninth grade. I met Andrew at a bus stop on Highland Avenue in Piedmont, down the street from my house. He was my first (and richest) boyfriend, an heir of the Van de Kamp frozen foods empire. Or so the story goes. He never spoke of it.

I grew up in Piedmont, an exceedingly tony community plunked into Oakland, with well-policed borders that ensconce myriad slate-roofed manors, Spanish Mediterranean estates, brown-shingle Craftsmens, leaded-windowed Tudors, all surrounded by expansive (and expensive), manicured gardens.

The town has parks galore, complete with statues by famous artists and soft, emerald lawns bordered by a profusion of violets and daffodils. As one visitor starkly remarked on a local website, Piedmont’s main park “doesn’t represent Oakland parks. If you think Oakland parks are similar you will be disappointed.” The poster continued, “You’ll feel like you have entered Eden’s Garden… you won’t find the homeless camping compared to Oakland.”

The point is, Piedmont is rich, and I got to grow up there. At the time, I didn’t realize that was a privilege. I felt like an outcast in that community. My parents weren’t blue-bloods. I don’t know how they…