Don’t marry a woman over 30. There are the obvious reasons…
– The over-30 woman has lower fertility. If you want to build a dynasty, your over-30 wife might stall out at 1.3 heirs.
– The over-30 woman has likely amassed an impressive knob count. When you marry a 30+ woman, you’re marrying her 30+ cockas. Hope you like getting phantom cucked! As magically prehensile as your penis may be, she’ll never look up to it in cross-eyed awe like she did with her first cock when she was younger, hotter, tighter, and inexperienced.
– The over-30 woman is bitter from a wasted prime spent on failed relationships she hoped would lead to marriage. Now that you’re marrying her, she should be grateful, but she’s not. You remain perplexed, as is the wont of your beta male class.
– The over-30 woman fell in love with her career and the alpha male bosses she answers to before she fell in love with you. Wrong order.
But all these reasons pale in importance to the fact that a man marrying an over-30 woman is investing everything he has in a rapidly depreciating pleasure provider that has already lost a lot of its aesthetic value.
As reader Trainspotter helpfully notes,
Zombie Shane: “But the fall-off [in a woman’s attractiveness] a few years later can be shockingly abrupt.”
It certainly can be. So many guys these days are marrying early 30’s women, and then, almost immediately – Bam! The wall. It’s over almost before it began. It comes on so fast these guys should qualify for some sort of PTSD related disability.
As I go through my week, I often see married couples walking about. At least nine times out of ten, the wife is so unattractive that there is no way I could possibly imagine doing her, and these are just women in their 30’s. In fact, it is impossible for me to imagine most of them as having ever been attractive enough to warrant male attention.
Perhaps the fault is mine, and my imagination impoverished. Where I saw only blight, sag and bloat, their male partners saw bounteous opportunity, vistas beyond compare.
Do these men have stomachs of iron, or something? What power of will do they possess that I lack, in order to service these mighty warpigs? Most assuredly, I could never do what they do. I lack the strength, to my great and eternal shame.
Col. Kurtz himself has nothing on such gods, strolling amongst mere mortals such as I. Give me ten divisions of men like that and…well, not exactly sure what I could do. Probably bump up porn sales a notch or so.
“It’s over almost before it began.” The shining shiv delivered. The message received in pierced heartmeat. Surprise expiration!
Marrying an over-30 woman is like buying a used car one mile short of its 120,000 mile servicing. Yeah, you’ll enjoy a few bumpy rides sitting in that steal, but it won’t be long before the tailpipe falls off somewhere on Route BigMistake and the heater blows ice queen air.
The over-30 woman can fix herself up enough to fool the prospective provider hubby for a short while, and once the line that is dotted is signed the ruse will be discarded. The short time horizon thinking and avoidance of easy prescience are the thermal exhaust ports of many a beta schlub too desperate for love to project the catalyst of their ardor a few years forward.
Marry her young and un-plunged. That’s the ticket (if you must punch it). This way, you get to enjoy five to ten more years of your wife’s prime nubility before her petals start floating to the ground. Ten years of almost famous sex in exchange for surrendering your natural male prerogative for poosy variety beats two years of reunion tour sex at the same exorbitant price.
There’s another, subtle, reason to refuse the wedded diss of marrying the over-30 woman. Now, naturally, if you marry an under-30 woman, the day will come, ostensibly, that she’ll be your over-30 wife. But you’ll have something that chagrined men who married women on the cusp of sagging cups don’t have: Years of very fond, very monopolized, very supple memories. If you maritally snag a 21-year-old minx and occupy her sugar walls for the next ten years, the spermatomically bonded cervix-splattered glue of all those splendid tumbles of passion accrue into something larger than the sum of your individuated speckles. All that young woman heat, heat which will never be replicated with the older version of your wife, captures into limbic amber a network of interlocked, superconductive emotions with the power to sustain lovingrapture a good ways past the poignantly brief era of peak wife ripeness, onward into the elevator muzak era of bland marital inertia (50 years, plus or minus).
You marry an over-30 woman and you’re left grasping at a grease truck menu of curdled, pear-shaped memories and wrinkled recollections for sustenance.
Don’t fall victim to marrying that Charlie Brown Christmas tree that drops its one bulb as soon as you carry it across the threshold. Find yourself a young healthy fir, chop it down, decorate it with your tinsel, and leave lots of unwrapped gifts under its voluptuous boughs. Just make sure there’s no room under there for anyone else’s gifts.
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