I’m 56, single, and thought I had exorcized all my mommy issues. But here I am, swiping through the wreckage of the dating pool, and all I see is her. Not literally, but close enough—dark, tired eyes, the weight of life sagging into her skin, lips pursed in quiet disappointment. They’ve been through wars. They’ve lost. And now they’re here, peddling whatever’s left, hoping someone’s too blind, too desperate, or too drunk to notice.
The best of them decayed away years ago. The rest carry on under the great delusion that the thing between their legs still holds value—as if there’s a line of eager suitors waiting to bid on a relic of better days. “No hookups,” they declare, as if someone out there is clamoring to pay admission for what’s now an abandoned theme park.
Who’s buying you a Happy Meal for this? Who?
I can’t do it. This is the wall I can’t climb.
Women in their late 40s and 50s still have kids—grown kids, failure-to-launch kids, angry kids who hate every man their mother brings around because they got abandoned years ago. These women still have enough good looks to compete in the younger market, so they lean into it—fake lashes, hair dye, the art of taking a selfie from just the right angle to trick the desperate. They know they have options. They think they’re still playing the game.
And what a game it is—stretch marks that resemble the Chicago Trolley System around the belly button, lips dangling like wind chimes on a broken porch, half a bottle of lube on the nightstand, ready for one more reluctant performance. They apply it the same way a mechanic applies oil to an engine that should’ve been junked ten years ago.
Conversations of pluralism in the bedroom, “this is how I like it, oh I don’t do that anymore.”
I’m supposed to be excited?
Traditionalism? That’s a ghost story, a legend passed down from men who were lucky enough to see it before the world convinced women they could raise children on their own and live off the child support. That’s gone once they grow up. Long gone. What’s left is dry, bitter, and exhausted. Wrinkles not from laughter, not from joy, but from resentment.
I sit across from them, listen to their stories, their grievances, their never-ending list of what went wrong—and feel nothing. No spark. No connection.
At this stage, you’d think they’d jump at the chance for companionship, maybe even appreciate the offer before the sand in the hourglass turns to dust. But no. No, they still think they’re prizes.
Prizes for who, exactly?
Society has tagged age 45 as the benchmark. Your youth and beauty—that was the currency you had at the table. And now? Now, you’re trying to bargain with expired coupons and act like the store still honors them. The market has changed, sweetheart, and so have you.
I get it—aging is a bitch. The world isn’t kind to women who were once young and irresistible but are now just available. But you don’t get to rewrite the rules just because your best days are behind you. That’s not how this works.
Men age into their value. Women age out of theirs.
Brutal truth? Sure. But nature doesn’t give a damn about your feelings when you find yourself bouncing from one average man to another, finally settling with some old guy who owns a house. It’s a cold realization, like waking up hungover next to someone whose name you can’t remember. The years have a way of stripping away illusions, leaving you with the bare bones of your choices.
In the end, we all face the same fate. The beauty fades, the vigor wanes, and we’re left grappling with the remnants of our desires. It’s a dance as old as time, and no one gets out alive. So, what’s the point of it all? Maybe it’s about finding a sliver of meaning in the chaos, a moment of genuine connection amidst the pretense. Or perhaps it’s just about enduring, surviving the relentless march of time with a shred of dignity intact.
As my Grandfather once said, “Age is no crime, but the shame of a deliberately wasted life among so many deliberately wasted lives is.” So, we trudge on, hoping to carve out something real before the final curtain falls.
