Why should I be a caretaker for an old man? What will you give mean apartment? A car? she said, looking at me as if I were a discounted product on a supermarket shelf that nobody had bothered to mark down in time. In that instant, for the first time in years, I wondered whether the world had finally turned upside down. At fortythree, people were already labelling me oldtimer and slapping a price tag on a relationship without any hint of flirtation or a game.
Im fortythree. Ive never been married. Ive had two cohabiting relationships, each lasting about two yearsnormal, decent, nothing dramatic, just didnt work out, and we went our separate ways like adults. I always thought that was a plus: no alimony, no exfiles, no baggage, no endless comparisons or arguments. In reality, however, being single at my age now looks more like a suspicious anomaly, as if being unmarried meant there was something wrong with me, a hidden defect that never passed certification.
I finally decided enough was enough. I wanted a family, a woman by my sidepretty, wellkept, young. Yes, I wont lie; Id prefer someone under twentyeight, someone who turned heads and made my mates ask, Where did you find her? I saw nothing shameful in that. Im a man who earns, owns a flat in Manchester, has a decent car, a steady income, doesnt drink or smoke, looks after himself, and, as far as I was concerned, I was a respectable option on the market.
But the market, I discovered, now runs on a different set of rules, and under those rules I wasnt a buyer at allI was the product, and not even a particularly soughtafter one.
**First date.** I met a twentysixyearold named Emily through a dating app. Wed been texting for a week; she laughed at my jokes, wrote youre interesting and its easy talking to you. I thought, finally, a normal acquaintance, no strings attached, just human contact. The moment we met, however, the conversation shifted to a completely different plane.
She looked at me, evaluating, and within fifteen minutes asked:
Do you have a car?
I answered.
Do you own a flat?
I answered.
How much do you earn?
At that point I realised this wasnt a date; it was an interview. I wasnt even a candidate, more like an asset being tested for liquidity. What surprised me was her composureshe asked the questions as calmly as one might ask, Tea or coffee?
When I turned the tables and asked, What are you looking for in a relationship? she smiled and said,
Comfort. I need a man who can meet my needs.
Just like a price listno shame, no hints, plain and simple.
**Second date** was even more striking. A twentyfouryearold called Charlotte, stunning and impeccably groomed, the very pictureperfect type that, in my mind, justified all the effort. We met at a restaurant in London; I picked up the bill, everything as expected, and soon the talk drifted to the future.
I said, I want a family, children, a solid relationship.
She looked at me and replied calmly,
Then what can you give?
At first I didnt get the point.
What do you mean?
Look, you want a young woman, right? She has choices. Why should she choose you?
Thats when the conversation that blew my mind truly began.
Youre older, she continued, so you have to compensate with resourcesflat, car, money, lifestyle. Otherwise whats the point?
I tried to argue that it wasnt just about money, that feelings, compatibility, respect mattered, but she just shrugged.
Thats secondary. The basics come first.
Then, in her even tone, she repeated what had haunted me:
Why should I be a caretaker for an old man?
She said it without anger, as a simple fact, and added,
If you want a young woman, you need to match her expectations.
I left that evening feeling as if Id been taken apart and appraised on a market board.
But the worst part isnt the isolated incidents; its the system.
**The third story** finally knocked me out. Id been chatting with a twentysevenyearold named Sophie. Shed initiated the conversation, was eager, asked questions, flirted, and I thought perhaps things werent all that bad. Then she sent 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 asked, What do you offer in return?
She laughed.
Me? Myself.
At that moment something clicked inside me. Myself turned into a product, a service, an allinclusive package that required upfront payment. The absurdity was that they didnt see anything wrong with it.
They arent shy, they dont hide, they dont play gamesthey lay out the terms immediately, and if you dont fit, youre written off without emotion or regret, like an unsuitable option.
And the most ironic part?
I honestly thought the problem lay with women that theyd become spoilt, that their demands were inflated, that they were mercenary, that they only cared about money.
The more dates I went on, the more I listened, observed, and analysed, the clearer it became: the issue wasnt only them. I walked into this market expecting to choose, only to find myself being chosen.
I wanted a young, attractive, convenient partner.
They wanted a secure, stable, profitable one.
I chased looks; they chased resources. I wanted someone to please the eye. They wanted someone to meet their needs. In that logic, everything is honestjust unpleasant.
It hits hard when you realise youre not unique, not special, not the one, but just another item to be compared, priced, and discarded.
The cruelest moment isnt the rejection itself, but the realization that others see you not as a man, but as a proposal with conditions, limits, a production date. And perhaps Im simply too late.
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, and to get what I want I must either meet those demands or change my own expectations.
Im not ready for either, and thats the most unsettling revelation Ive had in years.
