Dear Diary,
Why should I become a caretaker for an old man? What will you give mea flat? A car?asked a 24yearold woman when I suggested marriage. She said it flatly, looking at me as if I were an overripe product on a supermarket shelf, past its sellby date, forgotten by the manager. In that instant, for the first time in ages, I wondered whether the world had truly turned upside down: at fortythree, people already label you a geezer and list a price tag on a relationship without any hint, flirtation, or game.
I am fortythree. Ive never been married; I have had relationships, two cohabitations lasting two years each, ordinary, alive, without drama. They simply ended, like two adults who politely went their separate ways. I always thought that was a plusno alimony, no exfiles, no baggage, no endless comparisons or squabbles. Yet in todays reality that seems less a virtue than a suspicious anomaly, as if being single is a defect, a hidden flaw that failed some unseen certification.
I decided honestly it was time. I want a family, a woman by my sidepretty, wellkept, young. I wont pretend; Id like someone under twentyeight, someone who looks good and makes my mates, halfjealous, ask, Where did you find her? Theres nothing shameful about that, because Im a man who earns, owns a flat in Manchester, drives a decent hatchback, has a steady income, doesnt drink or smoke, keeps himself in order. I thought I was a respectable option on the market.
But the market, it turns out, runs on a different set of rules, and I am not the buyer but the merchandiseone that isnt even in high demand.
**First date**. A 26yearold, Charlotte, met me through an app. We chatted for a week; she laughed at my jokes, wrote youre fascinating, youre easy to talk to. I thought this might be a genuine connection, no strings, just human contact. The moment we met, however, the conversation slipped into a wholly different lane.
She stared at me, appraising, and within fifteen minutes asked:
What sort of car do you have?
I answered.
Do you own a flat?
I answered.
How much do you earn?
Then it clickedthis wasnt a date, it was an interview, and I was not even a candidate but an asset being tested for liquidity. She asked each question as calmly as one might ask, Tea or coffee?
When I turned the table and asked, What are you looking for in a relationship? she smiled and replied, Comfort. I need a man who can meet my needs. Straightforward, no sugarcoating, like a price list.
**Second date** was even more eyeopening. A 24yearold named Emily, pictureperfect and groomed, the sort of woman you think worth striving for, met me at a restaurant in Birmingham. I paid for dinner, as proper, and eventually the talk drifted to the future.
I want a family, children, a stable partnership, I said.
She looked at me and calmly asked, And what can you offer?
I was taken aback. What do you mean?
She said, You want a young woman, right? She has choices. Why would she pick you?
Then she went on, Youre older, so you need to compensate with resourcesflat, car, money, lifestyle. Otherwise whats the point?
I tried to argue that it isnt just about cash, that feelings, compatibility, respect matter, but she shrugged, Those are secondary. The basics come first.
And then, with the same flat tone, she said, Why should I be a caretaker for an old man? She added, If you want a young woman, you must match her expectations.
I left that evening feeling as if Id been taken apart and appraised on a market sheet.
What aches the most isnt the odd oneoff; its the system.
**Third story** finally broke me. A 27yearold, Rosamund, had messaged first, was eager, asked questions, flirted. I thought perhaps not everything was rotten. Then she sent a voice note: Listen, lets be honest. I need a man who will support me. Im not willing to work myself to the bone. If youre not ready, dont waste either of our time.
I asked, What do you give in return?
She laughed, Me? Ill give you myself.
Thats when something clicked inside me. Myself as if it were a product, a service, an allinclusive package that demands upfront payment. The absurd part is that they seem genuinely unaware of the problem.
They dont hide, they dont play gamesthey state the terms outright, and if you dont fit, they discard you without feeling, without regret, like an unsuitable SKU.
And the irony? Id been convinced the fault lay with women that theyd become spoiled, greedy, only after money.
But the more dates I attended, the more I listened, the clearer it became: it isnt just them. I walked onto this market expecting to choose, yet I became the one being chosen.
I wanted a young, attractive, convenient partner. They wanted a secure, stable, profitable one. I chased looks; they chased resources. In their logic its honest, just uncomfortable.
It hurts to realise youre not a unique, special catch, but one of many being compared, priced, and set aside.
The cruelest part isnt the rejections; its the moment you see yourself not as a man you thought you were, but as an offer with conditions, limits, a production date. Perhaps Im simply late to the party.
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 adapt my offer or change my expectations. As for me Im not ready for either path yet.
That, dear diary, is the most unsettling revelation of these recent years.
