15May2026
Im Thomas, 43, and tonight I finally stopped pretending that everything was still ordinary. A 24yearold named Poppy had just taken my marriage proposal and, without a hint of humour, asked me pointblank, Why should I be a carer for an old man? What will you give me a flat? A car? She stared at me as if I were a discounted item on a supermarket shelf, past its sellby date, and for the first time in years I wondered whether the world had turned upside down: at 43 I was already being labeled old man while the price tag on a relationship was being slapped on my forehead, no flirtation, no softening, just raw commerce.
Im 43. Ive never been married. Ive had two steady cohabitations, each lasting about two years, sensible and quiet, simply ending by mutual agreement. I used to regard those years as a plus: no alimony, no exwives, no baggage, no endless comparisons or drama. In todays dating market, however, that clean record looks less like a badge of honour and more like a suspicious anomalyas if a man whos never been married must be defective, a hidden flaw that never passed certification.
Im honest with myself: its time. I want a family, a partner beside me, attractive, wellkept, young. I wont lieId like someone under 28, someone who would make friends whisper, Where did you find her? I see nothing shameful in that. I earn a reliable income, own a twobedroom flat in Manchester and a decent car, I dont drink or smoke, I keep fit, and, in my mind, Im a decent prospect on the market.
Yet the market, as it turns out, runs on a different set of rules, and Im not the buyerIm the product, and not even a particularly coveted one.
**First date** a 26yearold Id met on an app. After a week of texting, she laughed at my jokes, wrote youre interesting and its easy with you. I thought this could be a straightforward, uncomplicated connection. The moment we met, however, the conversation shifted into a different dimension.
She sized me up without concealment 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 dateit was an interview. I wasnt even a candidate; I was an asset being tested for liquidity. The remarkable thing was her composure; she asked those questions as casually as someone might say, Tea or coffee?
When I turned the table and asked, What are you looking for? she smiled and replied, Comfort. I want a man who can meet my needs. No hint, no embarrassmentjust a price list.
**Second date** a 24yearold, striking, polished, the perfect pictureperfect type Id imagined being worth the effort for. We met at a restaurant in Birmingham, I covered the bill, everything went as expected, and eventually the conversation drifted to the future.
I want a family, children, a solid relationship, I said.
She looked at me calmly and asked, And what can you give?
I was momentarily baffled.
What do you mean?
She pressed on, You want a younger woman, right? She has choices. Why should she pick you?
Then she launched into the reasoning that finally snapped my brain into place.
Youre older, she said, so you need to make up for it with resourcesflat, car, money, lifestyle. Otherwise whats the point?
I tried to argue that it wasnt all about cash, that there are feelings, compatibility, respect. She simply shrugged, Those are secondary. The basics first.
And then, in her steady tone, she repeated the line that had haunted me: Why should I be a carer for an old man? She added, If you want a young woman, you have to match what she expects. I left that night feeling as though Id been taken apart and appraised on a marketplace.
The worst part isnt the isolated incidents; its the system behind them.
**Third encounter** a 27yearold Id been texting with for a while. Shed initiated the conversation, asked questions, flirted, and I started to think perhaps not all was bleak. Then she sent a voice note:
Listen, lets be honest. I need a man who will support me. I dont want to grind myself to exhaustion. If youre not willing, dont waste either of our time.
I asked, And what do you offer in return?
She laughed. Me? myself.
That sentence cracked something inside me. Myself as a product, a service, an allinclusive package with payment upfront. The absurdity lies in how unapologetically they set the terms and, if you dont fit, youre dismissed without a hint of regret, like a mismatched piece of inventory.
Ironically, I used to think the problem lay with women that they were spoiled, that their expectations were inflated, that they were purely mercenary. The more dates I attended, the more I listened, the clearer it became: the fault isnt solely theirs.
I arrived at that market expecting to pick a partner, yet I found myself being the one selected. I wanted a young, attractive, convenient companion. They wanted a financially secure, stable, profitable partner. I chased looks; they chased resources. In their logic everything is honest, just uncomfortable.
It hit me that Im not a unique treasure, not a rare find, but just another item being compared, priced, and discarded. The most painful realization isnt the rejectionsits the moment you see yourself no longer as a man, but as a proposal complete with conditions, limits, and a production date. Perhaps Im simply too late.
Maybe I should have built a family earlier, before everything turned into a transaction. Perhaps I lingered too long in the illusion that time was on my side. Reality now is blunt: to get what you want you must either meet the markets demands or rewrite your own criteria.
And Im still not ready for either.
**Lesson:** Ive learned that chasing an idealised image while ignoring the underlying economics of modern dating leaves you feeling like a product on a shelfvalued only for what you can provide, not for who you are. To find genuine connection, I must stop trying to fit the markets price list and start redefining what I truly value, even if that means stepping away from the catalogue altogether.
