Why should I be a caregiver for the old man? What will you give me—an apartment? a car?—the 24‑year‑old answered when I, Andrew, 43, proposed.

Why should I be a carer for an old man? What are you going to give me a flat? A car? Poppy, a twentyfouryearold Id just proposed to, said it bluntly, looking at me as if I were a dated product on a supermarket shelf that the manager had forgotten to discount. In that instant, for the first time in ages, I wondered whether the world had finally turned upside down at fortythree youre already being labelled an oldtimer, and the price of a relationship is being slapped on the table without a hint of flirtation, without a game.

Im fortythree. Ive never been married. Ive had two cohabitations, each lasting about two years, normal, lively, with no drama they just ended, like any sensible adults would expect. I used to think that was a plus: no alimony, no exfiles, no baggage, no endless comparisons or fights. Yet in todays dating market that seems less a virtue than a suspicious anomaly, as if being single ourtime means youre defective, an uncertified product.

I decided it was time. I wanted a family, a woman by my side beautiful, wellkept, young. I wont lie; Id like someone under twentyeight, someone who looks good and makes my mates, halfinjest, ask where did you find her?. I saw nothing shameful in that. Im a man who earns, own a flat in London, drive a decent car, have a steady income, I dont drink or smoke, I take care of my health. By my own calculations I was a decent option on the market.

But the market, it turned out, runs by different rules, and in those rules I wasnt a buyer at all I was the merchandise, and not even the most popular kind.

**First date**. I met twentysixyearold Hannah through a dating app. We messaged for a week, she laughed at my jokes, wrote youre so interesting, its easy with you, and I thought maybe this was a normal, uncomplicated connection. The moment we met, however, the conversation sprinted onto a different track.

She gave me a evaluating look and, within fifteen minutes, asked:

Do you have a car?

I answered.

Your own flat?

I answered.

How much do you earn?

At that point I realised this wasnt a date, it was an interview I wasnt even a candidate, just an asset being checked 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 said, Comfort. I want a man who can meet my needs. No coyness, no hints just a price list.

**Second date** was even more striking. I was with twentyfouryearold Poppy, attractive, polished the kind of pictureperfect woman Id thought was worth the effort. We met at a restaurant in Manchester, I picked up the tab, and eventually the talk drifted to the future.

I said, I want a family, kids, a stable partnership.

She looked at me and replied calmly, And what can you give?

I was taken aback. What do you mean?

She said, You want a young woman, right? She has choices. Why should she pick you?

Thats when the conversation that blew my mind began.

Youre older, she continued, so you have to compensate with resources a flat, a car, money, a certain lifestyle. Otherwise whats the point?

I tried to argue that it wasnt all about cash, that feelings, compatibility, respect matter, but she shrugged, Those are secondary. The foundation comes first.

Then she said, in the same flat tone, Why should I be a carer for an old man? She wasnt angry, just stating a fact, and added, If you want a young woman, you must match the expectations.

I left feeling as if Id just been taken apart and appraised on a market sheet.

Whats worse isnt that these are isolated incidents; its the system.

**Third story** knocked the wind out of me completely. Id been chatting with a twentysevenyearold Amelia. Shed been the one to message first, flirting, asking questions, and I began to think maybe not everything was rotten. Then she sent a voice note:

Listen, lets be straight. I need a man who will support me. I dont want to work to the bone. If youre not ready, dont waste either your time or mine.

I asked, What do you offer in return?

She laughed. Me? Myself.

Thats when something clicked inside me. Myself as a product, a service, an allinclusive package that needs to be paid for upfront. The absurd part is they dont see the problem.

Theyre not shy, they dont hide, they dont play games they set the terms immediately, and if you dont fit, youre written off without a sigh, like an unsuitable model.

And the most ironic thing?

Id honestly thought the fault lay with women that theyd gone soft, that their demands were inflated, that they were mercenary, that they only wanted money.

But the more dates I went on, the more I listened, watched, analysed, the clearer it became: it isnt just them.

Id walked onto this market expecting to choose, yet I found myself being chosen.

I wanted a young, attractive, convenient partner. They wanted a welloff, stable, profitable one.

I chased looks; they chased resources. I wanted eyecandy; they wanted needs met. In that logic everything is honest, just unpleasant.

Because suddenly you realise youre not unique, not special, not the one, just another item being compared, priced, discarded.

The hardest part isnt the rejections. Its the moment you understand youre being seen not as a man but as an offer with conditions, limits, a production date. And perhaps Im simply too late.

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 as it stands, and to get what you want you either meet the criteria or rewrite your own.

As for me Im not ready for either path yet, and thats the most uncomfortable realisation Ive had in years.