Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about “the one.” You know, that ridiculous notion that there’s a person in the world who’s my soulmate, my other half, the Sonny to my Cher. Being the realist I am, I don’t believe in “the one.” It’s one of those myths that was created to pacify our doubts. It’s right up there with God and universal healthcare. I mean come on, one person in the ENTIRE world who is right for each of us? That seems awfully naïve, even for Americans.
But then Matt came back and all those nagging optimistic thoughts returned. For a long time I thought Matt was “the one.” I spent seven years waiting for him to come around. I guess I’m still waiting even though I tell myself we’re “just friends.” (Talk about a loaded phrase.) And as realistic as I am, I kind of like the idea of Matt as “the one.” I like the idea of spending Sunday mornings in bed with him and The New York Times. I like to picture him kissing me goodbye before he goes to work. I like to imagine us eating dinner and arguing about politics.
But just like “the one,” all of these great thoughts are just illusions. The same kind of people who believe in the one are the same people who believe in fate and destiny. If all that crap is true, then I guess that means my destiny doesn’t involve Sunday mornings in bed or political debates or The New York Times. Suddenly all this “the one” baloney doesn’t sound so magical.
I would love to know who invented the phrase “the one.” It’s probably some sad woman who reads Danielle Steele novels and quotes the movie “Love Story” religiously. Her name is probably Kristen or Sally or Maggie. I’m not sure why, but those seem like fitting names. Whoever this woman is, I have a bone to pick with her. She caused millions of women years of confusion, self pity and a dependence on Ben and Jerry’s ice cream.
People — especially women — love choices. I have several best friends, two favorite bands (one living, one dead) and dozens of favorite books. Why should we have to pick one person to spend the rest of our lives with? Love is kind of like the NFL draft: lots of great contenders, but only one really stands out and gets everyone talking. Maybe Matt is just one of many ones. Because when it comes down to it, all that fate and soulmate shit doesn’t matter. The tricky part is, who do you want to spend Sunday mornings in bed with, reading The New York Times?
