Some things only come with age and the more experience a women has, the more selective she becomes. The man she loves when she eighteen is not the same man she falls in love with when she is thirty eight.
Age is no barrier really, as long as a sexual relationship complies with the age of consent laws and as long as the reason is for love.
I have always entered a relationship with someone that I have loved. Sometimes my choices were wrong but I didn’t listen because the need was too strong; and other times my choices were right but the timing was all wrong and I still didn’t listen because it was something I had to learn from.
After the marriage to my Maltese Husband (which is the second time in my life), I have adopted a ZERO TOLERANCE on neglect and abuse, which means ABSOLUTELY NO SECOND CHANCES. When you are too good in a relationship, it’s the only way to stop a man walking all over you and my husband taught me that.
The problem with giving chances, is that perpetrators of violence against women in a sexual relationship (who are all men), take it as a green card to continue their abuse. Their minds are like that of little children, they don’t give a stuff what you’re saying even if they apologize with tears running down both cheeks, what they listen to is action and when you walk out or throw him, only then will he understand that you will not become his door mat under any circumstances. If all women followed this rule like it’s gospel, men would change their attitudes as quick as they change their underwear.
2020, HERE IN PARIS, I have another situation, it’s brewing on the inside. I’m still asking myself the question, ‘how did this man steal what I swore never to give to anyone again?’
BUT there’s something in his eyes I don’t know what it is exactly, they are on fire and his secretive soul is alive; he’s got it and he’s always on my mind. I hope he hasn’t caught on because I think it’s better to be friends than to give him something he’s only going to break.
The good news is he’s single but the vulnerability I feel around him is not what I need right now; and giving myself to him feels like I‘m giving too much away, it‘s just not the right time to be with anyone and certainly not under these circumstances - I don‘t use men to get off the ground, I want to do it myself - but the heart speaks a language we don’t understand, we don’t have a voice when our hearts making choices, there’s no plan and it’s not in our hands.
Like the French, I love first and fight last and I must admit that I do fall in love easily but not just with anyone, I happen to be very selective. I like intelligence and talent, humor and a good heart and if he’s got a ‘big gun’, well that’s a bonus (I hope you guys are using your imagination here).
Six years of celibacy, “…all that time I have spent alone by choice; not once did I feel lonely or experience any desire to be in a relationship with anyone. I am someone who is very emotionally independent and sanctioned with GOD and therefore, I don’t suffer from human loneliness and do not feel the need for company (other than my Rosary Beads always hanging around the neck); but this lovely young French Police Officer makes me want to reconsider, he gets my attention with just one glance but I make every effort to avoid him - it‘s just not the right time - the marriage to my husband is legally binding and according the law, still intact.., no amicable agreement was ever made to legally separate AND WE HAVE NEVER RECONCILLED; the case has not yet been scheduled to be heard in front of the judge through the divorce courts, so you see it’s a bit complicated”.
Is he the one? Usually, if you have to ask that question, it means ‘no’ but the experience of a heart that skips a beat for one single person is very hard to ignore. Maybe this is the true test of courage because the heart can ignore the mind, which is conditioned by man and environmental factors, but the mind can not ignore the heart, which is conditioned ONLY BY GOD.
I have a strong sense for justice and the reputation of a warrior but I’ve got a soft spot for hero’s because my daddy was my hero at 12 years old, when he saved my life from four men who followed me all the way home from school by car and tried to abduct me just around the corner from our family home - in 1985.
I was in grade 6, it was late afternoon and I was walking home alone from netball training, when I noticed car with four strange men in it trailing slowly behind me, as if they were counting my steps; which I tried to ignore several times hoping they would just go away.
My parents house was the second one from the corner of Edina Street and backed onto the Williamstown Cemetery, which attracted a lot of loitering after hours.
When I reached the corner of my street, the car that was following me suddenly stopped at the curb within lunging distance and the man closest to the back door (left hand side), opened it and stuck one foot out ready to grab me and drag me in the back seat. I hesitated and wanted to turn around and run a mile in the opposite direction but I knew at 12 years old that I could not outrun four men and besides, by doing that I‘d be further away from my parents house.
I clutched the handles of my school bag tight and attempted to walk past the car with the intention to make as much noise as possible (to draw attention to myself). At that point my voice was the only weapon I had.
I took a deep breath and a few more steps forward with shaky knees and my heart was practically beating out of my chest. Suddenly I noticed my father driving out slowly from the corner of Edina Street and I yelled out to him loudly but my father didn’t stop straight away until he noticed in his rearview mirror the car that was parked illegally at the curb with three men inside and the fourth one lunging out of the back door to try and pull me in.
My father is scared of no one, a tall blonde Italian man built like a boxer with tattoos down one arm and that signature a mustache as mean as Hulk Hogan‘s.
My father hit the breaks so hard that the tyres screeched loudly and left skid marks on the road as he turned the car in a rage to rescue me. The four men noticed my father driving towards them at full speed and quickly changed their minds; they shut the back car door and drove away in a hurry. My father did not stop, he chased them with his big V6 family sedan, bumper to bumper for an hour running red lights and stop signs all the way to the other end of the West Gate Bridge. He was hoping to force them to crash so that he could kill them with his bare hands (he told my mother later) but their car had a V8 engine, which was faster than my fathers V6, and they managed to escape him. They had no car registration plates so that they could not be reported to the police.
When my father returned home angry and sweaty, he told my mother (and me), that he was not going to leave the house that afternoon because he had no need to go anywhere. What made him do it was an urge from the heart that he could not ignore, pounding at him to go for a drive even though he didn‘t need anything; nor did he understand why until he reached the corner of the Edina Street and saw the position I was in.
After that day, I was always a daddy’s girl, a loyal bond we shared that used to make my mother jealous.
YES, like most little girls my daddy was my hero but there is another hero inside us and that’s the warrior that knows how to survive against all odds, with the protection given by GOD.
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