You’ll Never Find The One
lies.
I had a eureka moment yesterday. It did not happen after a night of strip clubs, booze, weed, and drugs, or end with drool dripping on my couch, to which I barely made it home. I didn’t wake and scream, “Eureka!” with a girl straddling me.
No. It happened when I was in church, with me staring at the pastor intently, his words flying past my ears. I was staring into the open space where he was standing. I could not see or hear anything. If anybody had touched me, I might have been wheeled to the ICU. I had fallen into another of my short self-loathing bouts, and I realized: there is nothing like The One.
Contrary to some people’s belief that there is one person meant for everybody, I don’t think I will find the one. I don’t think you will find the one either. The cycle will continue.
You meet numerous people and cross paths with the one that sees past your boundaries. You show them who you are, and they like it. They show you theirs, and you’re happy too. Chemistry. It moves from sparks to deep conversations.
Deep conversations morph into roaming hands and entangled mouths, genitalia falls in the mix somewhere. Somewhere down the lane, you decide you enjoyed this entanglement and ask for exclusivity. The Talk. “What are we?” It’s inevitable, and unless replaced with, “This is what I want us to be,” I don’t think that question will ever be out of vogue.
Say the feeling is mutual, and there you go again. You are convinced, yes, this is the one. And that leads to a road down the romantic lane: the fights, the kisses, the gestures. The sex. The dates. The dinners. The time spent together leaves you missing the person within seconds of separation. I was going to chip in with The Holy Trinity after gestures, but this is a whole board of directors.
Somewhere along the line- or before the line starts, I have no say when — the words ‘I love you’ float out of your mouths the first time- awkwardly -and then it comes again and again and again. Like a broken tap. Or broken record. Whatever rocks your boat. You say the words with or without the knowledge that love is a decision, not an emotion. For better, for worse kind of thing. See why they tell you to save the antics for marriage?
Then the breakup happens. In between the tears and the feeling your heart can jump out at any moment, you find out: she wasn’t the one. He wasn’t the one. You’re left with a farm of pictures to delete.
“But I thought-.” No, baby, you thought wrong.
So, where do we find the one? Where do we even begin to start to find the one? Is she in Amsterdam? Thailand? Venezuela? Ghana? Is she 12 hours away from me, dear Australia? Or is she in Festac, just down here? If she is in that case, how will I know her address?
If she’s not, I’m going back to church to pray. Lord, send me the ZIP Code.
God won’t anymore send me that ZIP code than tell you, “Hey, take the next bus going to Surulere and drop in the filling station. He’s buying fuel.” It’s a futile search for ‘the one,’ and I recommend entering a drag race with your Toyota Camry instead.
Here’s your reality.
The one will always be a phrase that requires an adjective to qualify it. The best one. The intelligent one. The next one; likened to an endless notebook. Flip for hours, and there will still be the next leaf. And in this case. The elusive one. You can’t find her. You won’t find him.
The one is that noun phrase that will take the form of such in a full sentence: The one I will marry. The one I choose to settle down with. The one I will… fill the gap. What do you plan to do with your one, short life? Certainly not waiting for the one. Not searching, either. God didn’t provide that ZIP code after all.
There is no ‘one’ meant for you. There is only an endless repertoire of relationships till you decide to complete your noun phrase. And make it work. Love is a decision to take someone’s shit. Marriage is a decision to take someone’s shit for the rest of your life. For better for worse.
