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When I was 23, meeting a man, or, as I then called him, "the one," was practically the most important thing in my life. I was not ready to get married or have children at that age, so I'm not sure what I planned to do with "the one" once I found him, but I was in a great hurry anyway.

In early November, a neighbor said she wanted to introduce me to a friend. She described James as handsome, funny, somewhat artsy, and successful. He was 27 and wanted a serious girlfriend. My friend thought we were perfect for each other and suggested that James and I meet at her annual Saturday-After-Thanksgiving Party.

I had been planning to spend the entire Thanksgiving weekend with my family in Iowa City. But within minutes of my friend's invitation I called my father to see if he could switch our airline tickets to return on Saturday instead of Sunday, so I could meet James. My father grumped at first, but then acquiesced when I pleaded that I needed to return home to meet my future true love. He changed our tickets to a flight from Cedar Rapids that was scheduled to arrive in Min-neapolis on Saturday afternoon.

Before I got my friend's invitation, Thanksgiving was the event I was anticipating most. My family would be together, and I always looked forward to visiting my aunt and uncle. We all arrived in Iowa City on Wednesday night; and throughout the long holiday weekend, while doing chores, my cousin, sisters, and I spent hours gossiping. My upcoming meeting with Mr. True Love was discussed at great length.

On Saturday, I awoke early to a dark sky and the gusting of snow flakes. I could hear my father and uncle talking in the kitchen about the traditional Thanksgiving blizzard. I comforted myself with the fact that we were flying and would leave early enough to avoid the storm.

My sisters and I share one major quirk: We laugh at mishap. Not at tragedy, but at life's stubbed toes, wrong turns, and embarrassing moments. So when we arrived at the Cedar Rapids airport and were told that all flights had been canceled, my sisters burst out laughing. You have to be in the right frame of mind to endure mockery from your siblings, and at that moment I was not yet there. I marched off and begged my father to rent a car. It was 3 p.m. and my father, an optimist, was persuaded that we just might make it to Minneapolis in time for my party if we drove.My sisters, with me in the middle, crammed into the back of the small rental car while my father and stepmother sat in the front. With the snow swirling, we set out on our wind-swept pilgrimage to my future husband.

Initially, I felt hopeful. But after two hours and only 65 miles, the futility of our mission became clear. Throughout the slow drive, my sisters delighted in torturing me by speculating on the progress of the party. One would say, "Let's see, it is now 8:30 p.m.; guests are just starting to arrive." An hour later, the other one would chime in, "9:30 p.m., James has asked the host where you are." Their commentary progressed as we labored toward home. "10:30 p.m., James asks the host the name of the sexy girl in the velvet mini skirt." "11:30 p.m., the host brings out a case of champagne; James suggests dancing." "1:30 am, James inquires about the mini-skirt-girl's New Year's Eve plans and offers her a ride home." Long before we had reached the Minnesota-Iowa border, my sisters had teased me out of my self-pity purgatory and I was joining in on the now-funny running narrative, while my overly choreographed life plan slowly disappeared.

It was 2 a.m. when I was finally dropped off at my apartment. I put on my pajamas and stood at the window watching the last partygoers stumble out of my friend's house across the street. You'd think that having my entire future derailed would have brought me down, but I was too full of laughter to care.

I had been in such a hurry to find "the one," that I lost track of what made that quest interesting - hanging out with friends, laughing with my sisters about bad dates, spending unencumbered holidays with the people I cared most about. Like so many Thanksgivings, the pleasure is not in the actual meal, but in the events that occur away from the dinner table. The memories come from the crowded car rides past snow-dusted farms, laughing with relatives as you dry the dishes, and the walk in the brisk air after the meal.

By the way, Fate did have plans for James that night. He met a woman (the mini-skirt girl?) who he actually did end up marrying. But I was the one who had a family that would drive 10 hours through a midwestern blizzard to please me. And that, as Robert Frost wrote, has made all the difference. mm

Jocelyn Hale is a Minneapolis freelance writer and a regular contributor to Minnesota Monthly.