Males of the second freshness… The cruel truth of relationships! How everything is written so correctly!!! You know, I once came to the conclusion that nature laughed at us, making us completely different not only in bodies but also in brains. For example, what does the average girl think about, up to twenty-five years old? It’s simple. The average girl does not want to be alone. She wants to have a beloved man, ideally to go with this man to the registry office, give birth to a child, or better yet, two, and live a long, happy, and friendly family.
What does the average boy think about up to the age of twenty-five?
Although it is obvious, I will give you a hint. It is not for nothing that the phrase “haven’t had enough fun yet” is used much more often in relation to men. Boys are like the wind. No, they probably also want to have a girl, but preferably several, and going to the registry office and having a child is, for the most part, completely out of the question. But five years pass. Or seven. Or ten. And everything changes. Boys suddenly come to the understanding that girls alternating with kaleidoscopic frequency are, of course, funny, but… require too much effort—and not so much material as moral. Because while you are still charming, while you go through this pre-bed ritual of semi-marital dances… and in the end—yes, in the end it is almost the same.
And you still have to get up and look for someone. For what? For sex? Funny. Very funny. With age, all this becomes both difficult and lazy. And then comes the realization that this very freedom that boys are so afraid of losing in their youth is, in fact, a real whore.
Over thirty and free—go wherever you want. And there’s nowhere to go, really. What, really, should I get up and go to a pub and sit there, drink beer, or whatever, and watch? Or go to a dating site? And then persuade her, take her out for a walk—is it necessary, will it be worth it?
Over thirty and free—do what you want. But it turns out there’s not much to do. Especially in the evenings. And you sit, scratch your belly, stare at the TV and remember who else is in your address book—and either you’re already busy, or it’s all been done and done, and you don’t want to anymore.
And suddenly it dawns on yesterday’s boys that playing in bed with a fresh bird every time is, of course, not bad, but… it’s boring, and this bird also needs to be found somewhere.
* * * * *
And you, already slightly beaten by life, just want to sleep more, and you, still rarely, but already have a pain somewhere in the area of your back.
And that’s not even the most important thing—you already want someone to just cook you that same borscht, delicious, pour it with sour cream, and watch, smiling, as you, hungry, having come from the cold to a warm apartment, sit and gobble it up. And to hell with the boring pelmeni, long ago petrified in the freezer.
And then for someone to bring you tea.
And then for your cup and plate to be cleared away, and you wouldn’t have to wash them. And it’s not even about the plates or the borscht, but about the fact that you want to come to an apartment where someone is waiting. To an apartment where your shirts appear clean and ironed by themselves, where your bed has already been made by someone, and there is no centimeter-thick layer of dust on the windowsill.
To an apartment where it is simply warm and cozy.
And suddenly comes the understanding that the very sex you were chasing is now more regular, not with you but with your married friend. Because you still have to find it, this sex, but with your friend—well, it’s right there, always at your side. And even if his wife is not so ideal and not at all a model, and she has developed love handles and a belly, she is just there.
And suddenly it turns out that there is no one to marry.
Young birds increasingly look in the direction of the same young gentlemen (who then, “not having had enough fun”, will leave them with children), and why the hell do you, an old 35-year-old dick with the first gray hairs in your hair, need a young girl?
Well, if only you were at least immensely rich, had at least a Jeep, and had a lot of money…
But no, you—come on!—are completely average; you go to work from nine to six, Monday through Friday, and your salary is the same, average. And you understand: if you start a family, then in order for you to live normally, your woman must also work, and if you manage to do everything yourself, it will be with great difficulty.
No, the young cockerels that the young hens are looking at are just as poor as you, but these cockerels have one main and indisputable advantage: they are young. And you are not so much.
And you start to look at the older ladies. They are also good and have settled like wine, and they clearly know how to cook that very borscht, and…
And here is where the main ambush awaits. They, older women, are already too “savvy” to just be with you. Just because you are you.
They’ve already had their fill of this life; they’ve already gotten divorced for the first time and are raising their children; and most importantly, they understand too well that family isn’t just the ease of being, but also shirts, socks, and dust on the windowsill; and that having a man nearby is yet another concern.
And a woman has enough worries, besides a man. Especially if there are children.
And they no longer look at how handsome and funny you are; they look at what you can give in return, for taking care of yourself and for that very thing.
But if you think about it, you can’t give anything.
Salary? Don’t make me laugh. You are average, she is average too, and therefore earns no less than you (and sometimes more), and therefore only you will benefit from this union: she will provide for herself without you; only now she will have more household chores, because historically it turned out that way: housework is always a woman’s job.
And what she could previously put off until later or not do at all, she will now have to do because there is you with your borscht and shirts that need to be ironed for you.
Sex? It’s funny. Only she has blossomed sexually, and she needs and needs it, and you are slowly fading away, and now a lazy once a week is enough for you to feel serene.
But not enough to spend the rest of my time looking after you.
Are you, as they say, “handy”? And how many hands does that apartment need? It’s probably not a house in the village. And is it true that you have “golden hands”? Or do I have to ask you ten times before you hammer in that notorious nail? Come on, admit it.
A man in the house who will protect her from life’s problems? Oh, really!
She will most likely get a sloth with a pot belly and old pants.
So it comes full circle, if you think about it, you, having married, will get borscht, shirts and care for yourself, and she… extra work in the house and, by and large, another child. Only an adult.
And she understands this perfectly well. And that’s why she looks at you much more than you look at her.
“We choose, we are chosen; how often this does not coincide…” (c)
* * * * *
So, I realized that a man over thirty needs a family much more than a woman of the same age.
Yes, a person is a paired creature, that’s for sure. And all of us, at least somewhere in our souls, are afraid of being alone. And women are afraid too. But often a sober look at a potential “man next door” and what he will bring to a woman’s life outweighs this fear. And besides, a woman, most often, at this age, has children. And they are with her. And what about a man?
And it is men of “over” age who need a family more than anything else.
And it is men who, because of loneliness, most often start to drink. And to sink.
No, we are not talking about marginality; it is just that everything becomes somehow not particularly necessary and simply does not make much sense. To achieve something—why? For whom or for what?
And there is no need to take special care of yourself.
Put ten average women without husbands, about forty years old, next to ten of the same average men without wives, and you will understand everything yourself.
It’s just that it was and always will be: a woman makes a man.
And not just makes—it’s women who ultimately look after men, and it’s women who, more often than not, keep men “afloat.”. And so, men, right now, get off your butts and go kiss your wives. Well, those men who have them, wives. And the rest—well, the rest, God willing—find one.
