Women, repeat after me: You. Are. Not. Special.

The dames in this town are starting to bore me.

You get a lot of dates if you’re single, male, and under 40 in London; even having a pulse is optional to some of these broads. I suppose I have about 3-4 a month, and it could be every night if I wanted to. That’s not making any claims for me; it’s just the market. There’s a shortage of single males 30-40 in London – a tens-of-thousands shortage – and the invisible hand of economics guides the adult dating scene as surely as the craft of making pins.

I try not to be ageist, and a reasonable proportion of my first dates are with women ‘sensible’ for me, i.e. the age range 28-34. There was even a 39yo recently, who I’m fairly sure was clinically dead by 11pm. (I’m not ordering the coffee there again, believe me.) But always, always the same problem arises.

The problem is not physical – many 30something women in London are in excellent shape; besides, nobody gets old anymore. It’s their attitude. Throughout the conversation, and evident in every nuance of body language, a large proportion of their utterances carry a lurking challenge: somehow inviting me to measure up, to prove my worth, to put in all the effort myself. Acting as if they were some kind of prize to be won.

Well, sorry girls, but – that’s not the situation. Market forces are in operation here. There’s a massive shortage of men 30-40 in this town, and you’re not going to get anywhere with me until you realise you are not the prize. I am the prize.

(Perhaps a wooden spoon prize, but a prize nonetheless.)

It’s funny, because all these women need to do is show some humility and understanding of the situation and everything’d be fine; I might even show interest beyond the first date. But the basic facts of the situation don’t seem to register with London’s single females. Hey, given the ratio of women to men here, I wouldn’t need to ‘win’ you if I were a drug-addicted unemployed toilet attendant suffering from dwarfism and recently back from a stint working on a pig farm in Mexico. So as a six foot plus gainfully employed property-owning professional I certainly don’t need to bring my lute along and act the ardent swain for you. If I’ve agreed to date you, you’re the one in possession of the right lottery ticket; it’s your own fault if you don’t cash it in.

So could we show a little understanding of market forces, girls? You’re really, really missing out.

(Incidentally, here’s a tip for your next nightmare date, guys. There’s an Ed’s Diner in the theatre district that shares toilets with the Yo!Sushi next door. Both are great places for a first date, since if things go pear-shaped you can just escape through the other restaurant.)

2 thoughts on “Women, repeat after me: You. Are. Not. Special.

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