I come from a marriage where I was a utility, not a priority. I was the generator, the ATM, the problem-solver. But I wasn’t the point. And looking back, past the wreckage, past the grandparents who actually gave a damn, I realize that in this superficial, consumer-goods, made-for-TV American love story, men are rarely the priority. We are the infrastructure.
And now? I’m back in the market. Reading the profiles. Listening to the women.
These are women who survived a divorce—usually one they initiated—and haven’t been remarried in twelve years. They aren’t nuns. They’re having sex. They’re racking up a body count that would make a rockstar blush. “Friends with benefits,” “weekend lovers,” “back door men” like me. The numbers are going up.
And yet, right there at the top of the profile, written in bold, unironic letters: “My Kids Come First.”
I have to share this with every single man out there: If you marry a woman with kids, understand this fundamental law of physics: You will never be her priority.
You are buying a used car. And not just any used car. You’re buying a car that someone else drove into the ground. A car that someone else failed to maintain. A car that still has the previous owner’s bumper stickers on it.
Think of it like a used piano. It’s been banged on for twenty years, played hard, maybe a little out of tune. Now it’s held together with duct tape and she’s filling it with candy to make it look sweet. But the music? The music is gone.
And the ghost of the previous owner? The ex-husband? He’s always there. Hovering. Texting about “the kids.” He’s the guy who saw her old face, her orgasm face, the face she’s trying to hide from you with Botox and filters. He’s sniffing around. And she defends it. “Oh, it’s just for the children.”
“Kids are priority.”
What man, in possession of his freedom, his wallet, and his balls, would sign up for that? Why would you volunteer to be the third most important person in your own goddamn relationship?
And now that I’m in my 50s, the game has shifted. It’s not just the kids anymore. It’s the grandkids.
These women, who destroyed their own marriages because they “weren’t happy,” because George left them for a 20-year-old, because they forgot how to be a wife… they haven’t learned a goddamn thing. They don’t want to shack up, drink champagne, and spend three days in bed rediscovering their sexuality.
No. They want to go to a toddler’s birthday party.
“Oh, I can’t see you this weekend, I have the grandkids.”
You’re 50 years old. You’re single. You’re lonely. But you’re prioritizing a generation that doesn’t even know your name yet over the man standing in front of you offering you a way out of the cold?
A man of value—an independent man, a man with a life—he is never going to drop his anchor in that mess. He’s not going to give up his freedom to be a secondary character in your family drama.
We are here to dabble. We are here to play.
We know the score. A divorced woman, before she remarries (usually to some poor, older sap she can boss around), she’s going to have about fifteen lovers. Fifteen guys who help her bridge the gap, who give her the validation she craves without the commitment she claims she wants.
All I care about? All any of us care about? Is being one of the fifteen.
I don’t want to be the husband. I don’t want to be the step-grandpa. I want to be Number 8. I want to be the guy who takes you for a dance, spins you around, and then drops you off at home so you can babysit while I go back to my quiet, clean, peaceful house.
So go ahead. Enjoy your kids. Worship your grandkids. Make them your priority.
But when a man like me walks into your life, if you want him to stay for more than an hour… you better at least pretend that he’s the only thing in the room that matters.
Otherwise, you’re just another lock that’s already been picked.
