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I Don’t Trust Myself with Men
I loved them all. I regret most.
Have no regrets.
Isn’t that what they tell us?
Those feel-good proverbs floating around every corner of social media preach how it’s better to play the game, reach the end of your life without a pang of grief or disappointment, live without regret, and so on.
What a fantasy.
We all regret something.
Having no regrets means you didn’t learn from mistakes, and life is nothing if not a collection of lessons carved from the mistakes that shape us.
I have regrets.
Namely, men.
I admit it. I suck at selecting the right partners.
Two failed marriages, a long-term relationship that crashed and burned. Now? I don’t trust myself with men.
If I found an ornate Arabian brass lamp adorned with intricate patterns and exotic decorations, complete with a live-in mystical entity called Genie, I’d rub that thing until my fingertips blistered — just to be transported back to my teens, where the crappy choices began, and rewrite my story from there.
I’d abolish my deeply ingrained attraction to the “bad boy.”
