I met Ben when I was 20. We were both attendants in the wedding party of our friends Becca and TJ. I arrived at the locale of the wedding on an unseasonably cool North Carolinian day. Flying in from New Jersey, I expected sunny weather and my strapless brightly colored dress afforded no insulation from the brisk wind.
Then, there was Ben.
Before I had been formally introduced to him, he stood in front of me, hardwear mountain jacket outstretched, saying, “Here, take this.” Stuttering, I thanked him and said “You must be Ben? Becca has told me a lot about you.”
Ben met all my “criteria.” He was older, left handed, sporty, played an instrument, drove a Jeep, and his name was Ben (my favorite name).” (I feel like inserting my present day commentary here is necessary for my reputation, I no longer have such a bizarre criteria.”) We spent much of the wedding weekend together. First, in North Carolina, finding excuses to take walks alone or burning up the dance floor in a way that only his sweet Southern charm could provoke.
Near the end of the weekend, I returned his jacket. I intentionally left my phone in the pocket, hoping he’d add himself into my phonebook. As it seemed, he and I were on the save wave length, and when my phone was returned to me, my phone book had a plus one.
Two days after the wedding, I went to Becca’s parents house in Northwest Georgia and Ben went to Athens. The following day, though, much of the wedding party reunited in Atlanta. Katie, another bridesmaid and I, were at the fountains in Centennial Park. When Ben met us there, I had already invoked my childlike qualities and sprinted through the fountains and I was flattned on the hot Georgia concrete wishing myself dry. As soon as Ben saw I was already wet, though, he suggested we take a jaunt through the fountain together.
As we dodged huge bursts of water and slid across the slippery concrete, in the midst of many little kids doing the same thing we were, Ben grabbed my hand and we kissed. It was romantic and spontaneous and whimsical, it was everything I thought I wanted. Later that night, Ben and I went out to eat at a New Orleans style restaurant and walked through the streets of one of Atlanta’s artsy neighborhoods eating honey suckle flowers and gelato. Back at Becca and TJ’s, we stayed up all night watching Across the Universe and conniving about when we could see each other again.
Early the next morning, Ben returned to Athens for class and Becca took me to the airport. Before we separated Ben invited me to meet up with his family at their condo on the beach in July. I agreed, not knowing how I was going to afford a plane ticket on my babysitting salary. Sitting on the plane from Atlanta to Newark, the thought of moving to Georgia for the summer crossed my mind. By the time I landed in Jersey, I had made my decision.
I was moving to Georgia.
Less than two weeks later, with 400 dollars to my name, I packed my silver Saturn, drove through the night and surprised Ben (he knew I was coming, my arrival time was undisclosed, however) at his Athens apartment. For weeks, I bounced around Georgia, staying with Becca and TJ in Atlanta, Ben in Athens, and Ben’s parents in Northwest Georgia. As the meager funds I took with me to Georgia began to dwindle, I was forced to make a decision: I could move in with my aunt and uncle in Minneapolis and go to school or I could work for Becca’s sister-in law in Atlanta and make my spontaneous move more permanent. Fearing I’d lose Ben, I chose to stay in Atlanta even though I knew the best decision for me would have been returning to Minnesoooooota.
Shortly after I made that choice, I became the worst version of myself. I was moody and ungiving, I nagged Ben about every single little thing. I became jealous and temperamental. I was nothing like myself because I chose to give up myself for someone else. I didn’t choose to stay in Georgia because it was best for me, I chose to stay there for Ben, even though he never requested it. I was miserable and I made everyone else around me miserable too.
Inevitably, Ben and I broke up and I had no idea what to do with myself. I didn’t even know who I was anymore. I hated the possessive, insecure girl I that had embodied herself in my skin, but I couldn’t seem to engage the independent free spirited woman that I aspired to be either.
I moved to Minnesota in December, weeks after Ben and I broke up, to live with my aunt and uncle and finish school. I spent many nights, curled up with the dog Ben and I bought together, questioning my inner-self. I feared that I had driven away the only person that I could ever love, my left-handed adventurer who met all my criteria. Even more, though, I was frightened that the person I had been after deciding to stay in Georgia would never leave my skin.
I longed to be sweet and free and fun again.
Through some intense, sometimes ugly, self-reflection, friends, and red wine, I was able to sift through the muck and uncover a satisfying version of myself again, version of myself that sought inner-peace and self-security.
Ben is a wonderful person and he was a lovely boyfriend. My relationship with him taught me that loving isn’t sacrificing yourself for someone else, or even for a relationship, loving is remaining independent while sharing your life with others.
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