Why Are Men Obsessed with Age? Unpacking the Male Mind and Its Fixations
Age ain’t nothing but a number — except when it’s an obsession.
Ah, the age-old question.
Quite literally.
That sneaky, ever-present little inquiry that seems to pop out of the mouths of men — ahem, the male species — with the same predictability as the sun rising.
“How old are you?” they ask, with a smile that can only be described as a blend of curiosity, hope, and a faint whiff of entitlement.
Usually right after, “You look familiar.”
Spoiler alert: no, I don’t look familiar — you’re just trying to figure out how many miles I’ve got under the hood, which, in male terms, roughly translates to: “How much emotional experience do you have, because I need to know how much nonsense I can get away with?”
The age question is never about getting into Disney World at a cheaper rate.
No, no, it’s far more self-serving.
They’re fishing, casting their line to see just how much of a blank canvas I am.
Too young?
A perfect target — a green flashing light, “naive and ready,” a soft, malleable ball of purity and potential they can mold and shape, complete with long-winded lectures about how the stock market works.
Too seasoned?
Well, I’ve yet to cross that bridge, so I can’t offer you personal anecdotes, but something tells me they’re not looking to sign me up for the AARP.
Maybe someday. Maybe not.
Now, here’s the real kicker: most of these men are easily 20-plus years my senior, give or take a divorce.
Ah yes, the older gentleman — classic.
And every single one of them? Dead certain I’m still navigating the wilds of my early 20s. Bless their hearts — life’s been kind to them in some ways, but the mirror… maybe not so much.
I’ve often entertained the idea of playing along for shits and giggles.
You know, pulling off my best “I-literally-have-been-sheltered-all-my-life” smile and seeing where the conversation would go.
“Why yes, sir, I just turned 21, and I’m sooooo excited about all the new experiences I’m going to have! Wow, you’re just so… wise. Can I get your number!?”
But the thought never quite gets past the brain stage.
Why?
Because if I start playing that game, the next thing you know, I’ll be getting asked if I’m eligible for a discount at the children’s museum.
And while I may enjoy a good discount, I’m not ready to lean into that level of deception — and not in the fun, seductive, “tell-me-what-you-want-to-hear” kind of way, but in the eye-roll-worthy way.
And who wants to waste a perfectly good lie on a man just trying to gauge how much “life experience” I’ve clocked in (read: patience for B.S.)?
It doesn’t feel authentic, even if it means foregoing the theatrics of pretending to be a doe-eyed, naive baby gazelle in a lion’s den.
And let’s be real, the jig would be up the moment I opened my mouth and actually have thoughts, feelings, and (gasp!) said something wise — or wicked.
But then the cosmic joke hit me.
If I had this face in my 20s, what did they think I was back then?
Twelve? Thirteen?
Walking around with a teddy bear and a juice box, apparently.
Yikes.
It makes you think about the real motivation behind that little question, doesn’t it?
The calculations aren’t adding up, boys.
But I digress.
Here’s the fun part: I’ve decided to milk this chapter of life (pun fully intended) for all it’s worth. I’m using this season to my advantage — an opportunity for reconnaissance.
Yes, I’m using it to gather intel on the male species — for science, for humanity, and most importantly, for the girls.
You see, men still see me as this attractive illusion, a tantalizing, naive, ditzy fantasy who might just be easy to dazzle with sweet nothings and empty promises.
I mean, why spoil their fun right off the bat?
I glide through the room like a mysterious enchantress, the object of desire for men who think they’ve struck gold.
But once the veil is lifted and they realize I’m not a walking, talking Barbie doll ready to be swept off her feet at the first wink, the plot thickens.
And then — poof — the curtain is pulled, the rug yanked from beneath their feet, and I disappear into the night, leaving them to ponder the eternal question: “If a man falls in the forest of his ego, and no one’s around to stroke it, does he make a sound?”
Spoiler: yes, and it’s usually something along the lines of grumbling about “women these days.”
Let’s just say, if I ever wrote a dissertation on the male mind, my sources would be endless, because nothing fascinates me quite like how the XY squad operates.
You see, I spent years studying textbooks in college that were predominantly male-centric. You’d think the world’s entire population was male, based on how psychology was taught.
You tell me.
Most of the studies were about them, their behavior, their thought processes, their needs. As if women’s existence was just a fun footnote in the great manuscript of life.
So, naturally, I’ve become an avid observer of the gentlemen’s league.
Which brings me to another curious observation: most men, upon seeing me, tend to assume I’ve left my brain somewhere back in elementary school.
Am I perceived as intellectually challenged because of my gender, race, or both?
It’s a question I’d love some feedback on from anyone brave enough to leave a comment on this piece.
Perhaps I just look like one of those women who’ll melt into a puddle of adoration the moment a man says, “You’re beautiful.”
Because, clearly, that’s what every woman’s been waiting for since time immemorial — a man’s validation.
Oh, you think I’m exaggerating?
Picture this: “OMG! A man thinks I’m beautiful?! Does he like me?! Do we have potential?! He’s SO sweet!! I feel sexy, beautiful, and like the most desirable girl in the world! Do I have a shot at being Mrs. So-and-So?! Is this fate? Is this LOVE? OMG, this is it! I’ve finally been CHOSEN by a man!”
And cue me salivating with my tongue out, eyes wide, wagging my tail practically swooning with delight.
No, wait — scratch that — I’m a cat.
Gag.
Yawn.
Before they can even finish their “Do you come here often?” line, I’ve already mentally packed up and exited the building.
That game? Played. Replayed. Over it.
Here’s the truth: I’ve observed men use words in the same way magicians use handkerchiefs — lots of flair but ultimately pointless.
And let’s be real, the world of words and language isn’t even their primary mode of communication.
Men, as we all know (or should), are creatures of action.
So why the sweet talk, the verbal flirtation, the never-ending stream of compliments designed to woo like we’re in a Danielle Steel novel?
It’s as if they’ve forgotten their native tongue.
Honestly, it’s disturbing on a daily basis.
But of course, not all men, just… well, most.
I’d say a solid 80% of their population, and that’s being generous.
I’m not talking out of my ass; they openly confirm it and spread this information around like confetti, so in theory, we should all be on board by now.
Meanwhile, they’re still out here selling girls diamond rings and fairy tales.
Make that make sense.
Cue the dramatic gasps from women — no, let’s be honest — big girls, who cling to the hope that their chosen circle of men, or worse, their own sons, are the exception to the rule.
So I’ll say it again — most.
I know it’s hard when the bubble of the “good men” you surround yourself with bursts, like realizing Prince Charming was just a frog with good PR.
But you’ll survive.
Let’s address the elephant in the room: men today, as a collective, are not well.
And because I love men, I definitely wouldn’t waste my energy writing this if the reality were any different.
The bottom line? It’s women who are driving the change, pushing boundaries, and gradually making the testosterone-fueled crowd a bit more bearable each year.
We’re the initiators of evolution on this planet — it’s our cosmic role.
You don’t like hearing that? Tough.
But here’s the catch: many women are not fully formed women, and no, motherhood doesn’t automatically make you a woman — it makes you a mother.
Womanhood, just like manhood, is based on evolution and growth.
The truth is, most men walking around today were raised by girls, and the proof is in the pudding.
Just sit at a sports bar, spend a day on a college campus, or watch the guys at a neighborhood barbecue and observe. It’s a shame to see so many still stuck in their caveman era.
This isn’t about blaming anyone; it’s about sparking real conversation.
One case: just yesterday, a grown man — yes, an adult, in theory — lost his mind because I took my rightful turn at an intersection before he could zip through.
He followed me for a mile, screaming at me from his car (windows rolled up, naturally, because what is a tantrum to a woman he doesn’t own if not cowardly?).
And what did I do? I cranked up my Podcast a bit, unbothered, completely ignoring his rage.
Oh, that set him off.
Me?
Kept driving, ignored the theatrics, and watched him speed off in a fury that only a fragile ego could fuel. And felt relief that so many people were watching in horror, including the woman driving in front of me, who nodded in solidarity.
Oh, and he had a ring.
Yeah, he was fist-pumping in that hot box — and I know, maybe he could’ve been gay. But he was hitched — that’s the point.
And yes, I did thank the cosmos I’m not his wife.
Men, take accountability for your rage.
Why are you so angry?
You’ve got the world rigged in your favor, it’s your playground, and yet, here you are, furious over the littlest things.
It’s baffling.
But maybe, just maybe, it’s because there’s something missing.
Could it be… the feminine, perhaps?
A dash of emotional intelligence?
Oh yes.
The feminine you were taught to dismiss, control, and dominate.
It’s coming back, boys, and there’s no stopping it.
So, let’s get to work.
Because here’s the kicker: many women are tired of being sold a dream of “happily ever after” that turns out to be nothing more than trauma bonding dressed in a white gown with a sprinkle of capitalism.
Because women are so enmeshed and “tickled pink” by men, it creates a blind spot — one where their boy radar becomes defective.
It’s like society knew how to switch off intuition by dangling the promise of a “princess day” and a photoshoot. You know the one: The wedding day is the best day of your life nonsense.
Where’s the sick bucket?
No, the best day of a woman’s life is when she looks in the mirror and realizes she doesn’t need anyone to validate her existence.
Then she can choose marriage if she’d like.
The truth is, women who see through the charade are sick and tired of the violent, aggressive, and downright unhinged way many men in our society (and yes, the married ones too) behave these days.
We’re tired of the toxic scripts we’ve been sold since birth and we’ve had enough of playing nice while men implode in their unresolved emotional messes.
Here’s a revolutionary message for my girls that you won’t see advertisers buying spots for: your twenties?
They’re for you.
Discover yourself, build your life, your wealth, and your worth. And sure, romance is fun, but only when you have this foundation.
Otherwise, you can believe you’re just entertaining men who are still boys in disguise.
Because until they evolve, these men, these boys masquerading as men, are walking symptoms of a deeply sick society.
And yes, ladies, that’s on us.
Because if we’re the ones with the portal between our legs, doesn’t that make us the gatekeepers of who gets to cross into the next generation?
If that stings a little, maybe it’s time for some self-reflection.
We’ve always had the power, yet somehow, we’ve been convinced it’s the other way around.
It’s on us to break the cycle, to step into our power, and to build the future on our terms.
Men? Well, they’ll evolve when they’re ready.
Until then, they can keep obsessing over our age and handing us their beauty standards, all in an effort to distract us.
And we can keep walking out the door, leaving them to ponder life’s greatest mystery: why they’re still standing there, clueless.
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