Why should I be a caregiver for an old codger? Whats in it for me a flat? A car? she blurted, staring at me as if I were yesterdays clearanceitem on a supermarket shelf that nobody bothered to discount on time. In that instant, for the first time in ages, I wondered whether the universe had finally flipped upsidedown: at fortythree they were already labeling me a geezer and, without a hint of flirtation or a dash of modesty, slapping a price tag on a relationship right over my head.
Im fortythree, unmarried, though Ive had a couple of decent cohabitationstwo years eachnothing dramatic, just two adults parting ways like civilized adults. I liked to think of that as a plus: no alimony, no exfiles, no baggage, no endless comparisons. In todays dating market, however, being single for that long seems less a badge of honour and more a suspicious anomaly, as if an unmarried man must be defective, a product that failed certification.
So I decided it was time. I want a family, a woman by my sidepretty, wellkept, and, lets be honest, under twentyeight. A woman who makes the boys at the pub whisper, Where did he find her? I saw nothing shameful in that; after all, Im a working man with a flat in London, a decent car, a steady salary, I dont drink, I dont smoke, I keep in shape, and, as far as I could tell, Im a fairly respectable commodity on the market.
Turns out the market now runs on a different set of rules, and Im not the buyerIm the product, and not even a topselling one.
**First date.** A twentysixyearold named Pippa, met through a dating app. We exchanged messages for a week; she laughed at my jokes, wrote youre so interesting, its easy talking to you. I thoughtfinally, a normal connection, no strings attached, just a bit of human contact. The moment we met, however, the conversation veered into a different dimension.
She gave me an appraisal glance and, within fifteen minutes, rattled off the questions:
Do you have a car?
I answered.
Do you own a flat?
I answered.
Whats your income?
At that point I realised this wasnt a date; it was an interview, and I wasnt even a candidate but a asset being tested for liquidity. She asked each question with the same calm as someone ordering tea or coffee.
When I finally asked, What are you looking for in a relationship?
She smiled and said, Comfort. I need a man who can meet my needs.
That was it. No coyness, no hintsjust a price list.
**Second date** was even more telling. A twentyfouryearold named Imogen, stunning, polishedthe sort of pictureperfect that makes you think the effort is worthwhile. We met at a restaurant, I picked up the tab, all as proper. When the talk drifted to the future, I said, I want a family, kids, a solid partnership.
She looked at me, deadpan, and replied, And what can you offer?
I was taken aback. What do you mean?
She went on, You want a younger woman, right? Remember she has options. Why should she choose you?
Thats when the real mindbender hit me.
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 cash, that feelings, compatibility, respect mattered, but she shrugged, Those are secondary. The foundation comes first.
Then, in her dry tone, she echoed the line that haunted me: Why should I be a caregiver for an old codger? She added, If you want a younger woman, be ready to deliver.
I left feeling as if Id just been taken apart on a conveyor belt and valued like a piece of stock.
And the worst part isnt that these were isolated incidents; its the whole system.
**Third story** finally broke me. A twentysevenyearold named Harriet reached out first, flirted, asked plenty of questions. I thought maybe things were changing, but then she sent a voice note:
Listen, lets be honest. I need a man wholl support me. I dont want to grind away at a deadend job. If youre not up for that, dont waste either of our time.
I asked, What do you bring to the table?
She laughed. Me? Myself.
Thats when something clicked inside me. Myself as a product, a service, an allinclusive package you pay for up front. The absurdity was that they didnt even see the problem.
Theyre not shy, they dont hide, they dont play gamesthey set the terms straight away, and if you dont meet them, youre written off, no feelings, no regrets, like a rejected applicant.
And the most ironic part?
I genuinely believed the fault lay with women. That theyd gone soft, that their demands were inflated, that they were mercenary, that they only wanted money. The more dates I went on, the more I realised the issue isnt just them.
Id walked onto this marketplace expecting to pick, but I ended up being the one picked.
I wanted a young, attractive, convenient partner. They wanted someone welloff, stable, profitable. I chased looks; they chased resources. In their logic everything is fair gamejust a bit unpleasant for me.
Because suddenly you realise youre not a unique treasure, not a special one, but merely another item in a catalogue, compared, priced, and tossed aside.
The hardest blow isnt the rejections; its the moment you see yourself not as a man, but as an offer with conditions, limitations, an expiry date. And perhaps, yes, Im a bit late to the party.
Maybe I should have built a family earlier, before relationships turned into transactions. Maybe I lingered too long in the illusion that time was on my side.
Now reality is what it is, and to get what you want you either meet the criteria or rewrite your own. As for me Im not ready for either side just yet.
That, dear reader, is the most uncomfortable revelation of the past few years.
