There’s a very specific phase every college girl goes through.

And no—it’s not self-growth. It’s not enlightenment. It’s not even a personality shift.

It’s getting your heart absolutely folded by a mediocre man who has the mental capacity of a peanut… and then deciding, “you know what? I need something more mature.”

So naturally… you go older.

Because in theory, older means stable.
Older means experienced.
Older means less bullshit.

Right?

Wrong.

Because let’s be so real—if a man is pushing 35, 40, still single, no ring, no nothing… babe, he’s not a hidden gem.

He’s a problem that’s been left on the shelf.

And I don’t say that lightly.

I saw this girl on TikTok—25, talking about her 50-year-old baby daddy like she cracked the code.

“He’s retired, he stays home with the baby while I work.”

Oh! Love that setup.

Until the next video.

They’re getting divorced.
He’s cheating.
And she’s paying his child support.

Like I’m sorry… you got finessed by a senior citizen.

And it made me think… yeah… I’ve had my own moment of temporary insanity.

Picture this.

10 a.m.
Empty stomach.
The only thing in my system is a burnt vape and water.

And somehow I’m at a steakhouse, already halfway through a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc like I don’t have a pulse to maintain.

By 3 p.m., I’m sitting at the bar, drunk enough to start hallucinating potential.

Enter: the bartender.
31.

German.
And I don’t mean “oh cool accent”—I mean fresh off the boat, Google Translate doing overtime.

6 feet tall… technically.
Beer gut… aggressively present.
Posture… questionable at best.

Sober me? Wouldn’t even look in his direction.

Drunk me?
Thought I discovered Jacob Elordi with a stomach.

Be serious.

He asks for my number.

For entertainment purposes only, I give it to him.

Because at that point, I wasn’t looking for a man—I was looking for something to do.

He texts me later, conversation is already painful because the language barrier is fighting for its life, but whatever… I’m still a little drunk and bored.

We plan a date.

And when I say date, I mean free dinner.

He picks this nice Peruvian spot I had literally been talking about earlier.

Convenient.

I show up two martinis deep because I physically could not face this man sober.

We sit down… and within minutes he hits me with:

“Do you want to split an entrée?”

Pause.

You’re a grown man.
With a very visible appetite.

And now I’m supposed to share food with you like we’re on a budget?

Immediately I knew… I will be at Taco Bell later.

But I say yes. Because at this point, I’ve committed to the bit.

The night goes on and this man will not shut the fuck up.

Talking about Germany.
Talking about how he owned clubs.
Owned bars.
Made so much money.

Meanwhile I’m sitting there like… okay so why are you bartending in a random steakhouse on 44th?

But I just nod. Sip my drink. Dissociate.

At some point I need a cigarette because I’ve been trapped listening to this man talk to himself for two hours.

He suggests we go to his cousin’s bar in the East Village.

Free drinks?

Say less.

We’re walking there and he’s trying to hold my hand.

In public.

Like we’re a couple.

And I’m literally speeding up trying to create distance because if anyone I know saw me, I’d have to transfer schools.

We get to the bar.

He introduces me to his cousin.

And when I tell you… this man was insanely attractive.

Like offensively good-looking.

The kind of man that makes you rethink your entire situation in real time.

And I’m standing there like… THIS is what runs in your family???

Because what the fuck happened to you.

Hours go by. It’s getting late. The bar is emptying.

And then out of nowhere—no warning, no buildup—he drops it:

“Oh yeah, my daughter loves that—”

I’m sorry.

Your what?

Daughter.

FOUR YEARS OLD.

And you thought to mention that now??

The cousin is looking at me like “you didn’t know?”

No. I didn’t know. Because why the hell would I be here if I did?

And then he keeps going.

Talking about how he was married in Germany.

Was?

No.

IS.

Because later that night—yes, unfortunately I ended up at his place because I needed to get back home and the Bronx at 2 a.m. was not on my vision board—I find a note.

In German.

From his wife.

Not ex. Not separated.

WIFE.

Talking about how she misses him, how she’s proud of him, how he’s building a life for their family.

I’m sorry???

So you’re not just a liar—you’re international with it.

I blocked him so fast my phone almost overheated.

No goodbye.
No explanation.
No nothing.

Because what exactly is there to discuss?

So yeah.

Older men?

Not more mature.

Just older… with more time to become professional liars, cheap on dinner, and weirdly comfortable hiding entire children.

And if there’s one thing I learned— it’s that a free meal will have you sitting across from a man with a  beer gut, a secret family, and absolutely no shame.

And honestly?

That’s on me.