Dear Diary,
Why should I end up looking after a granddad? What do you expect from me a flat? A motor? Thats what she said, blunt as a bricklaying crew, staring at me as if I were yesterdays discount loaf on a supermarket shelf, forgotten before the price fell. In that instant, for the first time in years, I wondered whether the world had truly turned on its head: at fortythree Im already being tagged as old man, and the price of a relationship is being slapped on the table without a hint of flirtation or a game of catandmouse.
Im fortythree, never married. Ive had two cohabitations, each lasting about two years decent, ordinary, and parting like adults without drama, alimony, or baggage. I liked to think of it as a plus: no exwives, no endless comparisons, no squabbles. Yet, in todays dating market, that clean slate reads more like a suspicious anomaly, as if never being married marks you as defective, a marriage that missed some hidden certification.
I decided it was time. I wanted a family, a woman by my side beautiful, wellkept, young. I wont lie: I was looking for someone under twentyeight, someone who would make my friends, green with envy, ask Where did you find her? I saw nothing shameful in that; I am a man who earns, own a terraced house in Manchester, drive a sensible hatchback, have a steady income, dont drink or smoke, keep fit, and as far as Im concerned am a decent catch on the market.
But the market, I discovered, now runs on a different set of rules. I wasnt the buyer; I was the product, and not even a particularly popular one.
**First date** a twentysixyearold named Poppy, met through an app. We chatted for a week; she giggled at my jokes, wrote youre interesting and its easy with you. I thought this might be a straightforward, nostringsattached encounter. The moment we met, however, the conversation veered into a different lane.
She sized me up, unashamed, and within fifteen minutes asked:
What car do you drive?
I answered.
Do you own a flat?
I answered.
How much do you earn?
At that point I realised this wasnt a date, it was an interview and I was the asset being assessed for liquidity. She asked each question as calmly as if ordering tea or coffee.
When I finally turned the table and asked, What are you looking for? she smiled and said, Comfort. I want a man who can meet my needs. No coyness, no hints just a price list.
**Second date** a twentyfouryearold called Imogen, pictureperfect, the sort of woman youre told to keep an eye on. We dined at a restaurant in Brighton, I picked up the bill, and the talk drifted to the future.
I want a family, kids, a stable relationship, I said.
She looked at me and replied with an even tone, And what can you offer?
I was taken aback. What do you mean?
She pressed on, Youre after a younger woman, right? She has choices. Why should she pick you?
Then she laid it out plainly: Because youre older, you need to compensate with resources a house, a car, money, a certain lifestyle. Otherwise whats the point? I tried to argue that love, compatibility, respect mattered, but she shrugged, Those things are secondary. The foundation comes first.
And then, in that same calm voice, she echoed the first line Id heard: Why should I be a caretaker for a granddad? She added, If you want youth, you have to deliver.
I left feeling as if I had been disassembled on a workbench and appraised like inventory.
Whats worse isnt the odd oneoff; its the system.
**Third encounter** a twentysevenyearold named Harriet. She initiated the chat, flirted, asked questions, and I began to think perhaps not every woman was this mercenary. Then she sent a voice note: Listen, lets be straight. I need a man who will look after me. I dont want to grind away at a job. If youre not ready, dont waste either of our time.
I asked, What do you bring to the table?
She laughed. Me? Myself.
That word hit me like a slap. Myself turned into a product, a service, an allinclusive package that must be paid for up front. The absurd part was that they didnt see anything wrong with it. No embarrassment, no hiding, no games they set the terms and, if you didnt match, you were simply written off, no compassion, no regret, just a not a fit label.
Ironically, Id blamed women for the problem: that theyd become spoiled, demanding, mercenary, only after money. Yet the more dates I endured, the clearer it became that the fault wasnt solely theirs.
I walked into this market expecting to choose, but I was the one being chosen. I wanted a young, attractive, convenient partner. They wanted a secure, stable, profitable one. I sought looks; they sought resources. In their logic everything is honest; its just unpleasant.
The sting isnt in the rejections. Its in realizing youre being seen not as a man, but as an offer, complete with conditions, limits, a production date. Perhaps Im simply too late. Perhaps I should have built a family earlier, before everything turned into a transaction. Perhaps I lingered too long in the illusion that time was still on my side.
Now the truth is plain: to get what you want you must either fit the mould or change your expectations. Im not ready for either.
**Lesson:** In a world where love is often listed like a catalogue, the only thing I can control is the honesty of my own heart and the willingness to stop shopping for a perfect product.
