Dear Diary,
Why should I become a caretaker for an old man? What will you give me a flat? A car? she snapped at me, not even bothering to soften the words. She stared at me as if I were an outofdate item on a supermarket shelf, left unsold past its bestby date. In that moment, for the first time in ages, I wondered whether the world had truly turned upside down: at fortythree they already label me a geezer, and they have the audacity to price the relationship in plain sight, with no hint of flirtation or games.
Im fortythree now. Ive never been married. Ive had two livein relationships, each lasting about two yearsnormal, healthy, and ending amicably, like two adults parting ways. I always thought that was a plus: no alimony, no exfiles, no baggage, no endless comparisons or dramas. Yet, in todays dating market, being single is seen not as an advantage but as some suspicious anomaly, as if never having married means something is wrong with me, a hidden defect that failed certification.
I finally decided it was time. I want a family, a woman by my sidebeautiful, wellkept, young. I wont lie; Id like someone under twentyeight, someone who looks good and makes my friends, with a hint of envy, ask, Where did you find her? I see nothing shameful in that. I earn a decent salary, I own a flat in Manchester, I drive a reliable hatchback, I dont drink or smoke, I keep fit, and I thought I was a respectable prospect on the market.
But the market, it turns out, plays by different rules. Those rules made me not a buyer but a productan unsought one at that.
**First date.**
She was twentysix, we met through a dating app, chatted for a week. She laughed at my jokes, wrote youre so interesting, its easy talking to you. I thought, finally, a normal connection without hidden agendas, just human contact. The moment we met, however, the conversation slid into a completely different arena.
She gave me a assessing glance and, within fifteen minutes, asked:
What car do you drive?
My flat?
How much do you earn?
Thats when I realised this wasnt a date; it was an interview, and I wasnt even the candidate, merely the asset being graded for liquidity. She asked each question as calmly as someone might ask, Tea or coffee? There was no awkwardness.
When I turned the tables and asked, What are you looking for? she smiled and replied, Comfort. I want a man who can meet my needs. No sugarcoating, just a price list.
**Second date.**
She was twentyfour, strikingly pretty, the kind of pictureperfect woman Id imagined worth the effort. We dined at a restaurant in London; I paid the bill, as expected. The talk drifted to the future.
I want a family, children, a solid relationship, I said.
She looked at me and calmly asked, And what can you offer?
I was taken aback. What do you mean?
She pressed on, You want a young woman, right? She has choices. Why should she pick you?
Then she laid it out plainly:
Youre older, so you need to compensate with resourcesflat, car, money, lifestyle. Otherwise whats the point?
I tried to argue that love, compatibility, respect mattered too, but she shrugged. Those things are secondary. The basics come first.
And then, in that exact tone, she said, Why should I be a caretaker for an old man? She wasnt angry, just stating a fact, adding, If you want a young woman, you have to match her expectations. I left feeling as if Id been taken apart on a conveyor belt and appraised like merchandise.
The worst part isnt the isolated incidents; its the system itself.
**Third encounter.**
I had been texting a twentysevenyearold, Sophie. Shed made the first move, 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 grind away at work. If youre not ready, dont waste either of our time.
I asked, What do you give in return?
She laughed. Me? Ill give myself.
That sentence hit me like a hammer. Myself presented as a product, an allinclusive package, to be paid for up front. The absurdity was that they didnt even see the problem.
They arent shy, they dont hide; they set the terms straight away, and if you dont fit, youre simply written off, no emotion, no regretjust a rejected option.
And the most ironic thing? I used to blame women. I thought theyd gone soft, that their demands were inflated, that they were mercenary, only after money. But the more dates I went on, the more I realised it wasnt just them.
I walked onto this market expecting to choose, yet I became the one being chosen. I wanted a young, gorgeous, convenient partner. They wanted someone secure, stable, profitable. I chased looks; they chased resources. In that logic, everything is fairjust uncomfortable.
It hurts to realise youre not unique, not a standout, but one of many being compared, priced, and discarded. The hardest blow isnt a rejection; its the moment you understand youre no longer seen as a man, but as an offer, complete with conditions, limits, and an expiration date. Perhaps Im simply too late.
Maybe I should have built a family earlier, before relationships turned into transactions. Maybe I lived 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 meet the criteria or change my own expectations.
And I am not ready for either option yet.
That, dear diary, is the most unsettling revelation of these past few years.
