Why should I become a caretaker for an old man? What will you give mean flat? A car? the twentyfouryearold said, not even trying to soften her words, staring at me as if I were a pastexpiry tin on a supermarket shelf, left untouched long enough to lose its discount. In that instant, for the first time in years, I wondered whether the world had finally turned upside down: at fortythree they already labeled me oldtimer, and they werent shy about sticking a price tag on a relationship right in my face, no hints, no flirtation, no game.
Im fortythree. I have never married; there have been two cohabitations, each lasting about two years, ordinary, uncomplicated, ending like adults who simply go their separate ways. I always thought that was a plus: no alimony, no exfiles, no baggage, no endless comparisons and arguments. Yet, in todays reality, that appears not as an advantage but as a suspicious anomaly, as if never having been married meant something was wrong with me, a hidden defect that never passed certification.
I decided, honestly, that it was time. I wanted a family, a woman beside mebeautiful, wellkept, young. Yes, I wont lie: I dreamed of someone under twentyeight, pleasing to the eye, so that friends, without a trace of envy, could ask, Where did you find her? I saw nothing shameful in that. I am a man who earns, own a flat in Manchester, drive a hatchback, have a steady income, drink no alcohol, smoke no cigarettes, look after myselfso, in my mind, a decent option on the market.
But the market, as it turned out, has been playing by different rules for some time, and under those rules I was not a buyer but a product, and not even a popular one.
The first date. She was twentysix, we met through an app, chatted for a week; she laughed at my jokes, wrote youre so interesting, its easy with you. I thought perhaps this was a normal encounter, no twists, no demands, just human contact. Yet the moment we met, the conversation slipped into another dimension.
She examined me, unhidden, and after fifteen minutes asked:
What car do you drive?
I answered.
Do you have your own flat?
I answered.
How much do you earn?
Then I realised this was not a date but an interview, and I wasnt even a candidate; I was an asset being tested for liquidity. The strangest part was her composureshe asked the questions as calmly as one would ask, Tea or coffee?
When I, in turn, asked,
What are you looking for in a relationship?
She smiled and said,
Comfort. So a man can meet my needs.
That was all. No coyness, no hints, just a price list.
The second date turned out even more curious. She was twentyfour, strikingly pretty, the very pictureperfect type that, in my mind, justified all the effort. We met in a restaurant in Brighton; I paid for the meal, everything as expected, and soon the talk drifted toward the future.
I said,
I want a family, children, a stable relationship.
She looked at me and replied calmly,
And what can you give?
I was taken aback.
What do you mean?
Well, you want a young woman, right? Remember she has choices. Why should she choose you?
Then the conversation that completely rewired my thoughts 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 only about cash, that there were feelings, compatibility, respect, but she simply shrugged.
Those are secondary. The basics come first.
And then, for the first time, I heard the phrase aimed at me:
Why should I be a caretaker for an old man?
She said it calmly, without anger, as a statement of fact, and added,
If you want a young woman, you must match.
I left that dinner feeling as if I had been disassembled, each part appraised on a market board.
But the most unsettling thing was not the isolated incidents; it was the system.
The third story finally broke me. I was messaging a twentysevenyearold named Elsie; she had initiated the chat, asked questions, flirted, and I began to think maybe things werent all that bleak. 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 readydont waste yours or mine.
I asked,
What do you offer in return?
She laughed.
Me? Myself.
At that moment something clicked inside me. Myself as a product. As a service. As an allinclusive package, payable upfront. The absurdest part was that they seemed genuinely unaware of the problem.
They werent shy, they didnt hide, they didnt play gamesthey stated the terms outright, and if you didnt fit, you were simply written off, without emotion, without regret, as an unsuitable option.
And you know whats most ironic?
I sincerely thought the problem lay with women.
That they had become spoilt, that their demands were inflated, that they were mercenary, that they cared only about money.
But the more dates I attended, the more I listened, watched, analysed, the clearer it became: it wasnt only them.
I had stepped onto this market expecting to choose, only to find myself being chosen.
I wanted a young, beautiful, convenient partner.
They wanted a secure, stable, profitable one.
I chased looks; they chased resources. I wanted eyecandy; they wanted needsfulfilment. In that logic everything is honestjust unpleasant.
Because suddenly you realise you are not unique, not special, not the one, but one of many compared, evaluated, discarded.
The most painful part isnt the rejections.
Its the instant you start seeing yourself not as a man you thought you were, but as a proposalterms, conditions, expiry dates. And perhaps Im truly late.
Perhaps I should have built a family earlier, before everything was treated as a transaction.
Perhaps I lingered too long in the illusion that time was on my side.
Now reality sits where it is, and in it, to obtain what you want you must either meet the criteria or reshape your own wishes.
And I am not ready for either the first or the second.
That, perhaps, is the most unsettling revelation of these recent years.
