At 57, I showed up to a date with a 53-year-old woman and announced 11 requirements. But her response left me fuming…
I set my phone on the table, screen-up, and said:
— First, I want to make my expectations clear right away.
She didn’t flinch—just slid her cappuccino cup a little to the side, as if making room for my speech.
My name is Gennady, and I’m 57. Over the years, I’ve realized one important thing: at our age, time is precious. There’s no sense wasting it on pointless dates or getting-to-know-yous with no real prospects. It’s much better to be upfront about what to expect and what kind of conditions come with being with me. Isn’t honesty the best approach?
Let me go through everything step by step, so no one can accuse me later of sugarcoating or misrepresenting myself.
Rimma and I met on a dating site. She was 53. In her profile picture, she’s standing by a fountain in a blue dress, with a special kind of smile—her lips barely moved, but her eyes sparkled with warmth. In her bio, Rimma wrote: “I work as a pharmacist, my son is grown, I live alone, and I’m looking for someone calm and reliable.”
That’s exactly the kind of man I am! I worked 22 years as a shift supervisor at a thermal power station, haven’t touched cigarettes for six years, and only drink on Fridays—and even then, just beer. Seems like I’d be a perfect fit for a serious relationship!
We exchanged messages for about two weeks. Rimma wrote thoughtfully and avoided flooding the chat with endless emojis, which I instantly appreciated. She struck me as a woman with her feet on the ground who knows how to conduct herself like an adult. Finally, we decided to meet on Saturday at a café on Lenina Street, famous for its cherry turnovers.
I arrived about ten minutes early. Ordered some tea for ninety rubles, since a cup of coffee here costs almost as much as a full meal at a cafeteria. I’m not at an age to throw money around. I settled at a table by the window and kept an eye on the entrance.
Rimma arrived right at two o’clock. She was petite, wearing a grey coat, with short light hair and delicate gold-rimmed glasses perched on her nose. In person, she was even more appealing than in her photo.
Though her gaze was just a bit too intense—like a doctor sizing up a patient, not sure yet what diagnosis they’ll deliver.
Rimma greeted me, took off her coat, and hung it neatly on the chair. She ordered her own cappuccino and pastry before I even had a chance to offer.
The first fifteen minutes were filled with small talk. We chatted about the weather, grumbled over new roadworks tearing up almost every street, and talked about her pharmacy job. Rimma told me how the same elderly women come in for their meds and end up sharing all their ailments. She listens, as she says herself, because someone needs to give them attention.
I nodded along, but in my mind, I was urging the conversation forward. Enough with pleasantries—I thought—we’re adults, not twenty-somethings tiptoeing around each other for months.
That’s when I pulled out my phone.
I had drafted my list of requirements back in the spring. Not out of boredom or for fun—actually, two failed relationships brought me to this. Each of them ate up about three months of my life.
In the end, unpleasant surprises surfaced. The first woman flat-out refused to move and insisted on living only in her own apartment. The second couldn’t make borscht and got offended when I brought it up.
After that, I’d had enough. No more wasting months just to be let down! It’s better to let a woman know from the start exactly what I expect out of a life together and what’s non-negotiable for me.
I opened my phone notes, ready to start reading out my list… To be continued:
I placed my mobile phone face up on the table and said:
«To begin with, I’d like to explain my expectations for a woman right away.»
She didn’t seem surprised at all, and her expression didn’t change. She just slid her cappuccino cup a bit, as if making space for me to speak.
My name is Gennady and I’m fifty-seven. Over the years, I’ve learned an important truth: at our age, time becomes incredibly valuable, so it makes no sense to waste it on aimless meetings or relationships with no future. It’s much better to be upfront right from the beginning — to let a woman know exactly what to expect and what terms she’d need to agree to. Isn’t that the honest approach?
But it’s best to explain everything step by step, so later there’s no room for anyone to say I sugarcoated things or misrepresented myself.
I met Rimma on a dating site. She’s fifty-three. In her profile photo, she’s posing by a fountain in a blue dress. Her smile was unique — her lips barely smiled, but her eyes shone with warmth. Rimma wrote, “I work as a pharmacist, have an adult son, live alone, and am looking for someone calm and reliable.”
Well, that’s exactly the kind of man I am! I worked twenty-two years as a shift supervisor at a power plant, quit smoking six years ago, and only drink on Fridays — and even then, just some beer. In my opinion, that makes me a pretty good candidate for a serious relationship!
We chatted online for about two weeks. Rimma wrote properly and calmly — no endless barrage of smiley faces, which made me immediately like her. I thought she seemed sensible, grounded, and adult. In the end, we agreed to meet on Saturday. We chose a café on Lenin Street, famous for its cherry-filled pastries.
I arrived about ten minutes early. I ordered tea for ninety rubles, since a cup of coffee there cost almost as much as a full meal at a cafeteria. At my age, I can’t just toss money around without thinking. I picked a table by the window and kept a lookout for her.
Rimma arrived right on time at two. She’s petite, wore a gray coat, and had short, light-colored hair. Her glasses had a delicate golden frame perched on her nose. Meeting her in person, I liked her even more than in her photo.
But her eyes looked at me almost too intently — just like a doctor examining a patient while the patient still doesn’t know what diagnosis they’re being checked for.
Rimma greeted me, took off her coat, and hung it neatly on the back of her chair. Then she placed her own order for a cappuccino and a pastry before I even had a chance to offer any suggestions.
The first fifteen minutes went by with the usual small talk. We chatted about the weather and commiserated over yet another round of road construction tearing up nearly every street in the city. Then we touched on her job at the pharmacy. Rimma told me that the same elderly women come to her all the time, buying their medications and sharing detailed accounts of every ache and pain. She listens patiently, she said, because someone has to give them a bit of attention.
I nodded along, but in my mind I was already urging the conversation forward. Enough talking around in circles and pretending this was just a friendly meet-up. We’re adults. We’re far from twenty, and I’m not interested in dancing around the real issues or postponing important conversations for months.
That’s when I pulled out my phone.
I had actually made my list of requirements back in the spring. It wasn’t out of boredom or just for fun. I’d been pushed to it by two failed relationships, each of which lasted about three months and took a chunk out of my life.
And then unpleasant surprises cropped up. The first woman flatly refused to move in together and insisted on living only in her own apartment. The second, I found out, couldn’t cook borscht at all—and when I tried to bring it up, she got offended.
After that, I decided I’d had enough. No more surprises or unpleasant revelations a few months in! I wanted any future partner to know from the start what I expect from living together and what I consider non-negotiable.
I opened the notes on my phone and got ready to read aloud what I’d written. My tone was calm and steady as I listed each point, like I was conducting a work meeting.
First: cooking. There should be a first course, a main dish, and compote on the table every day. No instant soups from packets, no store-bought convenience foods. For twenty-eight years, I’ve eaten proper homemade meals, and now that I’m older, I’m not about to ruin my stomach with who-knows-what.
Rimma didn’t say a word. I looked up from the screen and saw her watching me intently over the rim of her cup.
Second: keeping the house in order. I’m not a slob, but I work shifts and come home tired after a long day. So I want the apartment to be clean, things in their places, the laundry ironed, and my shirts neatly hanging on their hangers.
Third: No arguments with shouting. I already had more than my share of scandals with my ex-wife to last a lifetime. If something bothers my partner, I want her to calmly explain what’s wrong. No door slamming, dramatic sulking, or locking herself in the bathroom for hours.
At this point, I paused for a moment. I couldn’t help but think of Lyuda. We spent twenty-eight years together, but four years ago she suddenly packed two suitcases and left to live with her sister in another city. All she said was that she couldn’t live like this anymore and was too tired.
Luda never really explained what exactly had made her so exhausted. Even now, I can’t figure out what she was missing. After all, I always brought all my earnings home and did my best to make sure we had everything we needed.
Fourth. Household expenses. We split everything equally. That means utilities, groceries, and all other daily needs are a shared responsibility. I have no intention of being anyone’s sponsor or fully supporting another adult. Nowadays, everyone has opportunities to work and earn money on their own.
Fifth. My fishing. From May through October, every weekend I’m on the banks of the Iset or one of the lakes. That’s my hobby and my way to unwind, so I’m not open to discussing or cancelling it. Please, don’t call me constantly, complain, or blame me for leaving you home alone again.
After this, the points just started coming one after another. I explained that every Sunday, my partner and I must visit my mother. She’s already 82 and loves our visits, especially when we bring homemade pastries. Then I made a separate point clear: my mobile phone is my private property. No one should be going through it or checking my messages. Another requirement was about appearance: my partner must take care of herself, since I also want to walk beside an attractive woman and not feel awkward in public.
I didn’t forget about the kids, either. Adult sons and daughters should take charge of their own lives. There’s no need to keep asking their mother for money and making her cover their expenses.
In the end, there were eleven points. Once I finished reading them, I put away my phone, leaned back in my chair, and looked at Rimma. In my opinion, everything was explained as clearly as possible. I really wasn’t asking for anything complicated or impossible.
Rimma slowly took off her glasses, carefully folded them, and placed them by the saucer. Now, looking at me without the lenses, I could finally see her eyes—light gray, almost transparent.
“Can you give me even one reason why I’d need you?”
She switched to addressing me so casually, as if we’d known each other for years. I smiled to myself. Here we go, I thought. She’s about to test me.
“Do you really think a man shouldn’t give anything to a woman at home?” I started addressing her just as informally, since she’d already set the tone.
“I want to know exactly what you can give me. Not general stuff, but specifics.”
If she wants specific examples, I’m more than happy to list them. I started ticking things off on my fingers.
“I can fix a shelf, replace a faucet, repair an outlet, or hang a chandelier. If you have a car, I can check what’s wrong. I know my way around tools and machinery. I can carry heavy things or help out around the house. In the end, you’ll have a man’s shoulder to lean on! Do you even realize how much safer a woman feels with a man in the house?”
“Anything else?”
— I don’t smoke or get drunk. Okay, I have a little beer on Fridays, but that doesn’t really count. I don’t cheat, don’t chase after women, and I never raise a hand to a woman. I make sixty-two thousand—official salary, steady job.
Honestly, I thought I’d just listed some pretty respectable qualities. How many men over fifty these days can say they don’t abuse alcohol, never have affairs, and can handle home repairs on their own?
I’m convinced you can count men like that on one hand. Women should appreciate good men instead of nitpicking every little thing. Bachelors like that get snapped up like hotcakes.
Rimma nodded slightly, as if mentally checking off everything she’d just heard. Then she put her glasses back on and said:
— Alright. Let’s tally things up.
Right after those words, she started analyzing me—just as methodically as I’d just recited my requirements.
— I put up that shelf myself a while ago. I’ve got a power drill for that—my son gave it to me for my birthday. I call the building’s plumber whenever I need the faucet changed. That costs me eight hundred per visit, which only happens about once every three years. That same guy installed my chandelier. I have a car, but I take it to a mechanic—sorry, but they know their stuff better than you do. Heavy groceries get delivered right to my door. Delivery service costs two hundred.
I was just about to jump in with a comment, but Rimma raised her hand to show she wasn’t finished yet.
— Please wait, I’m not done yet. So after a full day at the pharmacy, I’d have to come home and cook you dinner with a starter, main, and a compote, clean, do your laundry, iron your shirts, pay half the utilities and groceries, bake pies every Sunday and take them over to your mom, and then stay home alone in the summer while you go fishing. Did I get your conditions right?
— Well, you’re kind of seeing it your own way…
— No, I didn’t twist anything. I just repeated exactly what I heard from you.
She then calmly took a sip of her cappuccino. I kept looking at her, totally confused by what she was getting at. These are perfectly normal expectations! Isn’t this how regular families live? My mom always handled the house just fine, and my grandma never complained either. None of them ever had conversations like this.
— Rimma, you’re just misunderstanding me. I’m not asking for anything out of the ordinary. These are just basic household responsibilities. That’s what a normal family life should look like.
— Gena, a healthy family life means both people caring for each other. But in your version, it seems like the woman has to do all the work, while the man only needs to hang a shelf once every six months. What you just listed sounded like a job description. So I’m supposed to be the cook, housekeeper, and laundress—and on top of that, give half my salary to the household budget. So tell me, what exactly would you be doing in this family?
I’ll admit, that really struck a nerve.
I didn’t come to this meeting for a lecture. I wanted to be honest, open, and act like an adult. Other men bring flowers on the first date, invite women to fancy restaurants, tell charming stories. Then a month later it turns out that guy already has a wife or three kids he’s paying alimony for.
But me? I laid everything out from the start—didn’t hide a thing. And instead of a thank you, I’m sitting here getting a scolding, as if I’m some misbehaving schoolkid!
— You know what I think? — I leaned forward over the table. — This is exactly why women end up single by fifty. You start overthinking, calculating, analyzing everything. But a man isn’t an equation to solve. He’s there in the home so a woman feels safe and knows she has someone to rely on.
— And I’m supposed to rely on a man who spends the whole summer at the lake?
— Don’t start criticizing my fishing!
I said that last line much louder than I meant to. People at the next table turned to look at us, and the young waitress standing by the counter actually paused in her tracks.
Rimma, however, didn’t raise her voice in response. She just kept sitting upright, calmly holding her cup with both hands.
— I’m not criticizing your hobby. I’m just trying to figure out what I can expect from this relationship. You mentioned having a man to lean on. Okay then—imagine I get sick. Would you make me some broth? Drive out to a pharmacy in the middle of the night for medicine if I needed it?
— But you work at a pharmacy yourself.
She laughed. It was a short, not unkind laugh, but for some reason it made me uneasy. I even started to feel uncomfortable sitting in my chair.
— All right, different question then. If my son needed help, what would you do? You just said grown kids should solve their own problems. But if I have a grandchild and someday need to babysit, would that be out of the question too?
— Babysitting a child is fine, of course. But I don’t plan on giving him money. He’s a man—it’s up to him to work and support himself.
— But we can bring your mom pies every Sunday, can’t we?
— That’s completely different. She’s my mother.
— And I have a son.
I just waved my hand, dismissing it. What’s left to discuss? There’s no point arguing with her. Once a woman decides to prove something, she’ll stick to her position to the very end, even if she twists the obvious into something completely different.
After that, the conversation faded into silence. Outside the window, wet snow began to fall—it was the first of the season. People on the street started walking faster, shielding their faces from the cold flakes. For a moment, I wondered if I had been too hasty. Maybe I should have invited Rimma out to the movies a couple more times, spent time together in a more relaxed setting, and only then brought up serious topics.
But I quickly dismissed that thought. No, I decided. If a woman reacts so negatively to perfectly reasonable requests on a first date, what could I possibly expect from her in the future?
Soon after, a waitress came over to our table. She set the check folder down right in the middle of us.
I opened it and glanced at the items: my tea—ninety, Rimma’s cappuccino—two hundred forty, a pastry—one hundred ninety. Altogether, it came to five hundred twenty.
I took out my ninety and said:
“Let’s each pay for what we ordered. As they say, we’ll split the costs.”
Of course, I was joking. Well, half-joking if I’m honest. I didn’t ask her to pay for the pastry, so why should I cover it? And why should I pay for a cappuccino that costs two hundred forty, when tea is more than twice as cheap?
Rimma didn’t say a word. She pulled out her wallet, took out a bill, placed it in the folder, and gestured to the waitress that the change was hers. In the end, she paid for the whole order—including my tea.
And my ninety stayed clutched in my hand.
Rimma stood up from the table, grabbed her coat, and buttoned it all the way up. First she looked at the money in my hand, then at me.
“Put it away. Think of this as my contribution to our joint budget. This won’t happen again.”
I wanted to tell her that I didn’t need her charity at all. But she’d already leaned in closer and whispered so only I could hear:
“Do you know what you are, Gena? You’re not a man. You’re a freeloader with a fishing rod.”
With those words, she straightened and headed for the exit. The bell above the door chimed. Through the glass, I watched her gray coat for a few more seconds until it disappeared into the crowd and the wet snow.
“You’re one to talk…” I muttered into the emptiness.
The people at the next table exchanged glances, and the woman sitting there covered her mouth with her hand, trying not to laugh. I finished the rest of my cold tea—all the way to the bottom. After all, it was already paid for, and I didn’t want to leave it.
I decided to walk home. It took me about forty minutes. I had to trudge through muddy autumn slush, but at least I saved money on the bus fare and got some air to clear my head.
The whole way, I kept thinking about our conversation. Freeloader! How dare she call me that? Me—someone who’s been working honestly since I was eighteen and never lived off anyone else! Even after my divorce, I didn’t stop taking care of things at home. For Lyuda, I fixed up the kitchen myself: installed shelves, changed the faucet, laid down baseboards. And after all that, she calls me a freeloader?
When I came back, the apartment was silent. Ever since the divorce, my two-room place has felt strangely empty and echoed in a way I’m not used to, even though I kept most of the furniture. It was Lyuda who took her things when she left.
I had no desire to cook anything elaborate. I grabbed a pack of dumplings from the freezer, boiled them, tossed on some sour cream, and ate dinner straight from the pot.
After finishing my meal, I called my mom. I told her everything that happened from start to finish—didn’t hide a thing or try to make myself look better than I was.
«You did the right thing, son,» Mom replied. Just from her tone, I could picture her shaking her head in disapproval. «People these days are just so spoiled. Your Lyuda was just the same: always wanting more. Don’t worry, you’ll still meet a good, sensible, practical woman.»
Exactly! My mom is already eighty-two, she’s met a lot of people in her life and she really knows how to judge character. If even she thinks I acted right, then that’s how it must be.
Before going to bed, I opened the notes app on my phone again and found my list. I carefully reread all eleven requirements. There was nothing excessive there. I checked each point just as thoroughly as I check my tools during a shift. Cooking, tidiness at home, calm conversation, sharing expenses equally, fishing—these are the most ordinary things, things without which a normal family life just can’t happen.
And then another thought popped into my head. I added a twelfth requirement to the end of the list: ‘No arrogance. She shouldn’t think she’s the smartest.’
It’s been three weeks since then. Now I’m continuing to chat on a dating site with two women: one is fifty-five, the other fifty-one. So far, I haven’t sent them my list in messages. I want to wait for a face-to-face meeting and see how they react when I read everything aloud, looking them right in the eye.
Sometimes, though, I do remember Rimma. She’s probably sitting alone in her apartment now, handling the power drill herself and paying eight hundred for a plumber. Well, let her live the way she wants. That’s her choice. I didn’t hide anything from her and I honestly told her what type of relationship I’m looking for.
Now you tell me: did I really ask for anything impossible? I don’t drink, I don’t cheat, I can work with my hands, and I have an official salary. And for all that, I got called a freeloader—can you believe it?
It’s no big deal. I know my time will come to find a worthy woman. And my list of requirements? It’s ready to go.
