Why should I be a carer for an old codger? What will you give mean apartment? A car? she says, not even trying to soften the words, looking at me as if I were a pastdue item on a supermarket shelf that nobody bothered to discount. In that instant, for the first time in ages, I wonder whether the world has finally turned upside downif at 43 Im already labelled a geezer and you can stick a price tag on a relationship right in my face, with no hint, no flirtation, no game.
I am 43. I have never been married. I have had relationships, two cohabitations lasting two years eachnormal, livedin arrangements that simply didnt work out, and we split like adults. I always see that as a plus: no alimony, no exfiles, no baggage, no endless comparisons or drama. Yet in todays reality it feels less a advantage and more a suspicious anomaly, as if being nevermarried marks you as defective, a hidden flaw that never passed certification.
I decide honestly: its time. I want a family, a woman by my sidebeautiful, wellkept, young. Yes, I wont lie; Id like someone under 28, someone who looks good and makes my friends, without hiding envy, ask, Where did you find her? I see nothing shameful in that. I am a man who earns, own a flat in Manchester, drive a hatchback, have a steady income, dont drink, dont smoke, look after myself, and, as far as Im concerned, Im a decent option on the market.
But the market, it turns out, now runs on different rules, and under those rules I am not a buyer but a productone that isnt even in high demand.
First date. A 26yearold named Poppy, we met on a dating app, texted for a week; she laughed at my jokes, wrote youre so interesting, its easy with you. I start thinking this could be a normal acquaintance, no strings, just a human connection. The moment we meet, the conversation quickly shifts to another level.
She looks at me, assessing, and after fifteen minutes asks:
What car do you drive?
I answer.
Do you own a flat?
I answer.
How much do you earn?
And suddenly I realise this isnt a date, its an interview, and Im not even a candidate, just an asset being tested for liquidity. The strangest part is her complete lack of awkwardness; she asks these questions as casually as if she were deciding between tea or coffee.
When I turn the tables and ask, What are you looking for in a relationship? she smiles and says, Comfort. I want a man who can meet my needs. No hint, no nuancejust a price list.
The second date is even more telling. A 24yearold named Charlotte, stunning, polished, the exact pictureperfect type I thought was worth striving for. We meet in a restaurant in Birmingham, I pay the bill, everything goes as expected, and the talk drifts to the future.
I say, I want a family, children, a stable relationship.
She looks at me calmly and replies, And what can you give?
Im taken aback. What do you mean?
She leans back. You want a young woman, right? She has choices. Why should she pick you?
Then she goes on: Youre older, so you have to compensate with resourcesflat, car, money, lifestyle. Otherwise whats the point?
I try to argue that it isnt just about cash, that feelings, compatibility, respect matter, but she shrugs. Those are secondary. First you need the basics.
And then, in her steady tone, she repeats the line that haunts me: Why should I be a carer for an old codger? She says it without anger, just stating a fact, and adds, If you want someone young, you have to match that.
I leave that dinner feeling as if Ive been taken apart and appraised on a market sheet.
Whats worse isnt the isolated incidents; its the system itself.
The third story finally knocks me flat. Ive been messaging a 27yearold named Amelia. She initiates, asks questions, flirts, and I start to think maybe not everything is so bleak. Then she sends a voice note:
Listen, lets be honest. I need a man who will support me. I dont want to work myself to the bone. If youre not ready, dont waste either of our time.
I ask, What do you offer in return?
She laughs. Me? I offer myself.
That wordmyselfhits me like a bolt. It feels like a product, a service, an allinclusive package that you pay for upfront. The absurd part is that they genuinely dont see anything wrong with it.
Theyre not shy, they dont hide, they dont play gamesthey lay out the terms, and if you dont meet them, youre simply written off, no emotions, no regret, just an unsuitable option.
And the most ironic thing?
I truly believed the problem lay with womenthat theyd gone soft, that their demands were inflated, that they were mercenary, that they only wanted money.
But the more dates I attend, the more I listen, watch, and analyse, the clearer it becomes: it isnt just them.
I came to this market expecting to choose, yet I end up being the one chosen.
I want a young, beautiful, convenient partner. They want a secure, stable, profitable one.
I chase looks; they chase resources. I want eyecandy; they want needs met. In that logic everything is honestits just uncomfortable.
Because suddenly you realise youre not unique, not special, not the one, but one of many being compared, priced, and discarded.
The toughest part isnt the rejections. Its the moment you understand youre seen not as a man, but as an offercomplete with conditions, limits, a production date. And perhaps, yes, Im simply late to the party.
Maybe I should have built a family earlier, before everything turned into a transaction.
Maybe I lingered too long in the illusion that time was on my side.
Now reality is what it is. To get what I want, I must either meet the demands or change my own expectations.
And I am not ready for either.
That, perhaps, is the most unsettling realisation Ive had in years.
