Why should I end up looking after a gramps? Whats in it for me a flat? A motor? she snapped, staring at me as if I were a tinnedham on the back of a supermarket shelf that someone had forgotten to discount. In that instant, for the first time in ages, I wondered whether the world had finally done a somersault: at 43 I was already being labelled granddad material, and she was throwing the price tag at my head without a hint of flirtation or a wink of irony.
Im 43. Ive never been married. Ive had two cohabitations, each lasting about two yearssolid, dramafree relationships that just ran their course. No alimony, no exfiles, no luggage, no endless comparisons or arguments. In my mind that was a plus, not a minus: clean slate, no baggage, no messy financial entanglements. Apparently, in todays dating market thats not a virtue but a suspicious anomaly, as if being a lifelong bachelor were a defect that needs a qualityassurance stamp.
So I decided it was time. I wanted a family, a partnerpretty, wellkept, young. Lets be honest: I was aiming for someone under 28, someone who would make my mates drool and ask, Where did you find her? I saw nothing shameful in that. Im a working bloke, I earn a decent salary, own a twobed flat in Manchester, have a decent motor, I dont drink or smoke, I look after myself, and I thought I was a fairly respectable item on the relationship market.
Turns out that market has its own set of rules, and I was not the buyer but the product and not even a bestseller.
**First date**
She was 26, wed met on a dating app and chatted for a week. She laughed at my jokes, sent messages like youre fascinating and its easy with you. I thought, finally, a normal connection, no strings attached. As soon as we met, the conversation slid into a very different lane.
She gave me a onceover, unashamedly, and after fifteen minutes launched the interrogation:
Got a car?
Own a flat?
What do you earn?
Thats when I realised it wasnt a date at all; it was an interview, and I wasnt the candidateI was the asset being assessed for liquidity. She asked the questions as calmly as if she were choosing between tea or coffee.
When I turned the tables and asked, What are you looking for? she smiled and replied, Comfort. A man who can meet my needs. No coyness, no innuendojust a price list.
**Second date**
She was 24, a polished pictureperfect sort that, in my mind, justified the effort. We met at a restaurant in Brighton, I footed the bill, everything was by the book. When the chat drifted toward the future, I said, I want a family, kids, a steady relationship. She looked at me and, deadpan, asked, And what can you give me?
I stared, bewildered. What do you mean?
She pressed on, You want a young woman, right? Shes got options. Why should she pick you?
Then she laid it out: Youre older, so you have to make up for it with resourcesflat, car, money, lifestyle. Otherwise whats the point? I tried to argue that love, compatibility, respect mattered, but she shrugged, Those are secondary. The basics first.
And then she echoed the line that had haunted me: Why should I end up looking after a gramps? She said it flatly, without anger, as if stating a fact, and added, If you want a young lady, youve got to match the offer.
I left feeling like Id just been taken apart on a conveyor belt and appraised for market value.
**Third encounter**
A 27yearold named Daphne. Wed been texting for a while; shed initiated the chat, flirted, asked plenty of questions. I started to think maybe it wasnt all doom and gloom. Then she sent me a voice note: Listen, lets be honest. I need a man who will support me. I dont want to grind myself to death. If youre not up for that, dont waste either of our time.
I asked, And what do you bring to the table?
She laughed, Me.
That was the moment something clicked. Me as a product, a allinclusive package that you pay for up front. The absurd part is that they dont even see the problem. No embarrassment, no playing hardtogetthey just set the terms, and if you dont meet them, youre written off like an unsold stock, with no drama, no regret.
And heres the kicker: I used to think the fault lay with women. That theyd gone soft, that they were greedy, that they only cared about cash. The more dates I endured, the clearer it became that the issue isnt onesided. I walked onto this market expecting to pick, and ended up being the one picked.
I wanted a young, attractive, convenient partner. They wanted a stable, wellheeled provider. I chased looks; they chased resources. In that logic everything is fairjust unpleasant. It turns out youre not a unique treasure, youre just another item on a catalogue, compared, evaluated, and tossed aside.
The most painful part isnt the rejections; its the realization that people see you not as a man but as a proposal with clauses, limits, an expiry date. Maybe Im simply late to the party, perhaps I should have built a family before everything turned into a transaction. Maybe I lingered too long in the fantasy that time was on my side.
Now the reality is what it is. To get what you want you either have to meet the current criteria or rewrite them. And me? Im nowhere near ready for either. That, dear reader, is the most unsettling revelation Ive had in years.
