Most new jobs are going to women — and 1 in 3 men have given up



President Donald Trump celebrated the jobs report published on Friday by the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics, which shows that American employers added jobs for the third consecutive month.

The report, which Trump called "great," says the U.S. economy added 172,000 jobs last month; the unemployment rate remained unchanged at 4.3%; the number of unemployed people, 7.3 million, "changed little over the month"; and the labor force participation rate held at 61.8%.

'Bodes ill for the country.'

Total employment growth for the months of March and April were revised up by 29,000 and 64,000, respectively.

"This is a labor market that is stronger than it was last year and is looking pretty darn solid, despite high energy prices and higher inflation generally," Gus Faucher, chief economist at PNC, told CNBC. "There's no indication that the labor market needs support."

While the labor market is purportedly healthy, there are a pair of potentially destabilizing trends under way behind the scenes: the overwhelming majority of new payroll jobs are going to women, and a staggering number of men have given up on finding a job.

Jason Riley, a senior fellow at the Manhattan Institute, recently highlighted that "the share of American men in the labor force has dipped to record lows." Labor Department data revealed last month that one in three men were neither working nor looking for a job.

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Keystone-France/Gamma-Keystone/Getty Images

The male labor-force participation rate has declined significantly in recent years, to say nothing of the precipitous decline that has taken place over the past century. The male LFP rate was 87% in 1948, 75% in 2000, and — according to the latest jobs report — 67.2% in May.

"The premature absence of millions of able-bodied men from our workforce, combined with the continuing retirement of the Baby Boomers and significant reductions in immigration, bodes ill for the country," wrote Riley.

While there are multiple factors at play — Baby Boomers are, for instance, retiring en masse; young men are dropping off to study; there is diminished demand for non-college male labor; and prime-age men are falling to the wayside because of illness and disabilities — the Washington Post recently pointed out that:

the labor market has weakened since early 2025, with most job opportunities concentrated in areas typically dominated by women, including health care and private education. At the same time, several male-dominated industries, including manufacturing, transportation, and mining have shed jobs, leaving a mismatch between typical skill sets and job opportunities for men.

It's evidently a new day for female labor.

Whereas in the mid-1970s, women held roughly 40% of jobs in the U.S. — not including agricultural work or self-employment — they now hold the majority of jobs in the country.

NPR's "Morning Edition" reported that of the roughly 369,000 jobs created between the beginning of Trump's second term and April, 348,000 jobs went to women and 21,000 jobs went to men. In other words, 94% of the jobs went to women and only 6% to men.

Courtney Parella, a spokeswoman for the Labor Department, stressed to "Morning Edition" that raw job counts provided a "misleading snapshot" of the labor market, adding that "both men and women are benefiting from a strong economy."

Women have picked up the supermajority of net new payroll jobs in part because of the growth in female-dominated sectors, namely health care — where women hold roughly 80% of the jobs — and social assistance.

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The secret to senior softball? It's all about the magic bat



I always liked team sports, so when I got old enough, I signed up for senior softball.

At our first game, I showed up with an old mitt and a small aluminum bat I dug out of my sister’s garage. I didn’t really know what level senior softball was going to be. I figured this mitt and bat would be good enough. If not, I could upgrade.

Another guy couldn’t seem to get a hit with it. He seemed perplexed and somewhat disturbed that there was a special bat for old people.

That bat, it turned out, was for girls. Like girls ages 8 to 12. It was about a foot shorter than a normal bat.

I didn’t know this at the time. I leaned it against the wall in the dugout. When the coach saw it, he turned toward us players: “Whose bat is this?!”

I admitted it was mine. He glared at me and said, “Get this thing out of here! If you don’t have a real bat, borrow one from the other guys!”

I grabbed the bat, hurried to my car, and stashed it in the trunk.

Magic stick

So then I had to borrow another guy's bat. I didn’t know anyone on the team yet. I wasn’t sure how to go about it.

The other bats looked pretty high-tech. Most of them looked new. I didn’t want to scuff up somebody’s brand-new bat. Fortunately, when it was my turn at the plate, one of the guys handed me his.

I hadn’t played softball in many years, so I was pretty nervous. The first pitch came, and I swung late and hit a bloop single over the first baseman’s head.

I hadn’t hit it very hard. I was surprised the ball went so far. I ran to first base. I had my first hit.

The next time I was up, I used that same bat, and this time I made solid contact. The ball flew over the shortstop’s head. It went farther than I’d ever hit a softball. It was almost unnatural how far it went. It was like magic.

'We have the technology'

Later, I asked the guy about his bat. He said it was a senior softball bat. All the bats in the dugout were senior softball bats. That’s what everybody had.

When I went up a third time, I hit a grounder. But it bounced hard and skipped passed the third basemen for another hit.

Back in the dugout, I asked a different guy, “What’s up with these bats?” He said it was a special design. Senior softball bats were made of advanced materials. They were more flexible. The bat gave a little when it made contact. And then the ball “trampolined” off it with extra force.

He showed me the little inscription on the bat that said it was specifically authorized by Senior Softball-USA, the world's largest senior softball association.

“Wow,” I said. “So we have our own bats.”

“Yes, we do,” he answered.

Sweet spot

At the next game, another guy showed up with a bunch of old senior softball bats he wasn’t using anymore. He had brought them for me. If I liked one of them, I could buy it from him.

He told me to try them out, see which one I liked. The first one I tried, I blasted a base hit between the outfielders. “I’ll take this one,” I told him.

And the next week, I gave him a hundred bucks.

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Pierre Lahalle/Getty Images

Softball shaman

Once I saw how fun senior softball was, I tried to find ways to get extra practice. A younger woman I knew invited me to a pickup game she played in.

These were young people, mostly in their 20s and 30s. They were good players, much better than I was.

When it came time for me to bat, I used my new senior softball bat and hit a deep ball into left field. Everyone was like, “Wow, you really got a hold of that one.”

The next time I was up, I hit another deep ball. People were surprised, shocked even.

“It’s the bat,” I told them. “It’s a senior softball bat.”

They had never heard of such a thing. They wanted to see it. I showed them the little inscription that said: Senior Softball-USA.

“It’s a special design,” I said. “It’s bouncier. Like a trampoline.”

They all felt the bat. They studied it. It didn’t look any different than their bats.

“Try it,” I told them. So they did. One guy, who could already hit the ball a mile, hit the ball a mile.

Another guy couldn’t seem to get a hit with it. He seemed perplexed and somewhat disturbed that there was a special bat for old people.

Another guy got a solid hit, but he didn’t seem particularly impressed. All these guys were really good hitters to start with. My special bat didn’t seem to do that much for them.

I said, “Maybe you have to be a senior to activate the technology.”

Team dream

I made it through that first season. It was a great experience. And being around my teammates reminded me how much skill and competence your average person over 50 represents.

Like the senior softball bat: They had integrated this new technology into their sport in just the right amount. It didn’t significantly alter the game; it just made it a little more fun.

But being on a team. That was the best part. I’ve been a writer all my life. Sitting in a room. By myself. Thinking my thoughts.

What a relief to be with the guys. On a beautiful spring day. In the dugout. With my magic bat.

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What poker taught me about being a man



Kenny Rogers had a theory. It fit neatly into a chorus. You have to know when to hold them, when to fold them, when to walk away.

Good advice in 1978; even better advice now.

Status means nothing once the cards are in the air.

Poker is everywhere. From small home gatherings to casino floors, mobile apps to livestreamed high-stakes tournaments, Americans are finding their way to the table in record numbers. But those of us who have played this game for years know something the newcomers are still discovering. Poker isn't really about cards.

Humbling education

I first sat down at a poker table at the tender age of 18. I thought I was learning a card game. I was not. What followed was a long education in humility, one that cost me roughly $900 in unannounced tuition fees.

What makes poker genuinely beautiful is that it holds up a mirror. Every decision you make under pressure — every fold, every bluff, every moment you push your chips forward knowing the outcome is uncertain — reveals something about your character.

How do you handle loss? How do you behave when winning? Can you stay calm when the situation indicates full-blown panic? The table asks these questions relentlessly, and it doesn't accept dishonest answers. Unlike your therapist, your mother, or literally anyone else in your life, the cards don't care about your feelings.

Bad luck and bad play

The game also teaches patience in a culture increasingly allergic to it. You can play perfectly for hours and still lose. You can make every right decision and walk away empty-handed. Poker forces you to separate outcomes from process, a philosophical discipline that, once learned at the table, improves almost everything else in your life. I spent years confusing bad luck with bad play. Untangling those two things was worth more than any pot I ever won.

Then there’s the community. Poker draws an almost absurdly wide cross-section of humanity. Retirees, students, engineers, artists, alcoholics, virgins, insomniacs, dreamers, Dana White — all seated together, temporarily equal, governed by the same rules.

Status means nothing once the cards are in the air. I once watched a highly influential, considerably lubricated lawyer get systematically dismantled by a pimply first-year hotel management student, to the tune of $10,000. The lawyer probably had a penthouse and a driver, but that night the kid charged him more per hour than he charged his clients.

Making peace with uncertainty

What matters is how you think, how you adapt, and how gracefully you handle the inevitable bad beats life and the deck will deal you. The great philosopher Blaise Pascal argued that virtually all human misery stems from our inability to sit quietly alone in a room. Poker, perhaps paradoxically, is one of the few places where we willingly gather to do something deeply solitary together. Each player locked inside his own mind, reading the room, making peace with uncertainty — which is either profound or deeply sad, depending on the hour.

My relationship with the game has changed considerably. In my late teens and 20s, I played with a chip on my shoulder and a point to prove, often to no one in particular. I chased losses. I overplayed hands. I mistook aggression for aptitude. The table punished all of it, ruthlessly and repeatedly.

Hard thinking

Now, in my 30s, with family plans taking shape and weekends suddenly finite, I play differently. I'm not there to conquer or to recoup some imagined debt from the universe. I sit down to enjoy the experience itself — the reading of people, the management of information, the occasional perfectly timed bluff that folds a better hand. The financial stakes matter less. The fun matters more. The conversations, the banter, the occasional expletive-laden eruption from an otherwise placid soul — this is what it’s all about.

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Kaveh Kazemi/Getty Images

There's a version of the poker story that gets told too often — the cautionary tale about addiction, debt, and ruin. The man who had everything, then didn't. Those stories are real, and they deserve to be told. But the dominant experience at most tables isn't tragedy. It's something much more profound: a room full of people, voluntarily uncomfortable, choosing to think hard about something difficult together. That's rare. Most of modern life is engineered to protect us from difficulty, to remove any sense of friction, to offer the path of least resistance at every turn. Poker refuses all of that. It insists on facing reality.

Perhaps that's why the boom makes sense. We are drowning in algorithmic slop, in content tailored to our preferences and platforms designed to keep us from ever feeling the nasty sting of being wrong. The poker table is one of the last places where the feedback is immediate, honest, and occasionally brutal. You were wrong. Here is proof. Now what?

The newcomers crowding the tables will discover soon enough what the rest of us already know. The cards are almost incidental. What the table actually deals is a portrait of yourself you didn't commission and can't dispute. There are many paths to self-knowledge. This one just happens to have a rake and a pimply kid who will take everything you have.

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Buy now. Pay later. Owe forever.



There’s good news at the Nelson residence. I no longer have to pay my rent!

That is, I don’t have to pay it the way I used to pay it. I now have options. I have been empowered. I can choose when I’m going to pay it. And how much I’m going to pay.

They are counting on you being stupid. And not being able to keep your head above water. That’s what they like to see. Millions and millions of heads, barely above sea level.

I can pay some of my rent now, and some of it later, according to my personal “cash-flow needs.”

Unlike in the past, I am released from the burden of coming up with all that rent money in one unwieldy chunk at the beginning of the month.

Now, I can spread my rent out into multiple payments, giving me freedom, flexibility, and financial control!

Flex my life

This has been made possible by a new product called Flex Rent, which my landlord has been pushing on me all month.

I have been receiving emails from Flex (the company behind Flex Rent) every single day. My landlord was helpful enough to give Flex my email address. Which leads me to conclude my landlord must really want me (and all his other tenants) to enroll in Flex.

Looking into it, I realize why. Because my landlord will get all the rent at the beginning of the month, just like he does now. Flex Rent will pay him.

Meanwhile, I can pay my rent to Flex Rent according to my “values” and my “financial goals” and my “monetary situation.”

In other words, when I’m not dead broke.

Land of the fee

Of course, Flex Rent is just trying to make a buck off renter Americans. Especially those in financial difficulties: people living paycheck to paycheck and doing so by a thin margin.

Flex Rent is trying to help those special people who, thanks to inflation, higher taxes, and job discrimination, are barely surviving financially.

Imagine you’re drowning. Onlookers call for help. Your friends at Flex Rent immediately arrive with a life preserver — only to ask for a small fee in order to throw it to you.

Ah yes, the small fee.

And what is that small fee? You start by paying Flex Rent $14.99 a month and 1% of your rent amount. Where I live that adds up to around $40/a month.

In exchange, they will front my rent money to my landlord. And I will get a few extra days or weeks to scratch up the rest.

With Flex Rent, everybody wins. My landlord gets his money. I am given “financial flexibility.” And Flex Rent — if the company can sign up enough people — will get rich off the growing number of financially desperate renters.

Klarna chameleon

Of course, Klarna started this trend. Klarna is that fun company that inserts itself between you and many of the companies you shop from online.

Let’s say you’re really hungry. You want to order a large pepperoni pizza. But you’re a little short on cash right now. Klarna magically appears in your pizza delivery app and offers to help.

Klarna will pay for your large pizza right now. All you have to do is pay Klarna back in installments. And there’s no interest! Not yet, anyway.

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Washington Post/NASA/Getty Images

You better, you bet

What’s interesting about Klarna and Flex Rent is that they exist in a crowded marketplace. Nowadays, there are many, many companies fighting for those last scraps of your paycheck.

All of which is happening during a time when your average American is having trouble even procuring a paycheck.

The various gambling websites are typical of these companies. They have figured out ways to transform your love of sports into highly addictive betting opportunities.

Outfits like Polymarket make it possible for you to gamble on non-sporting events. You can now bet on your local congressional race. Or who will win an Oscar. Whatever your interests, there are ways to lose money on them.

Meanwhile, Big Pharma also wants your last 20 bucks. As do your local streaming services. As does your local gas station.

It seems the less money Americans have, the more companies appear to fight over what’s left of it.

Stupid tax

Of course, the strategies used by Flex Rent and Klarna have existed as long as humans have exchanged goods and services. But these days, monetizing the moneyless is a growth business.

Even as I write this, more of these companies are coming into existence. There’s now a useful acronym used to describe their services: BNPL. “Buy now, pay later.” Here is just a sampling of some of the newer BNPL companies:

  • NOWpayments
  • Affirm
  • Credee
  • Sezzle
  • QuickFee
  • Afterpay
  • SplitIt

Each of these new outfits has its own particular gimmick. But they all do the same thing: take advantage of your fiscal misfortune, while pretending they’re “empowering” you.

You might ask yourself, “Do these companies think I’m stupid?” And the answer is yes, they do.

They are counting on you being stupid. And not being able to keep your head above water. That’s what they like to see. Millions and millions of heads, barely above sea level.

But maybe it’s good that these companies will help you buy that large pepperoni pizza. Don’t you need your pizza? And why should the pizza maker get all your pizza money? The Klarna folks need money too. Aren’t we all in this together?

All downhill from here: An aging hot dog hangs up his skis



I was living in Brooklyn at the time. I was 40-ish. I went home to Oregon for the Christmas holidays, and one of my siblings suggested we go skiing.

We were a skiing family when we were kids. In my teens, I skied nearly every weekend for several months of the year. I got pretty good at it and have fond memories of those days.

I remembered a doctor on TV saying something like: 'Most injuries I see are older people trying to do things they did when they were young.'

But I had not skied or ridden a chairlift in 20 years. The idea of going again seemed really fun. Why hadn’t we thought of this before?

Toys in the attic

Most of my old ski stuff was still around my parents’ house. I found my slightly rusted skis in the attic. My old Nordica ski boots still fit. I dug up some musty ski gloves and a ski hat and some old goggles. I wasn’t going to look fashionable or current, but I had the necessary stuff to ski down the mountain.

I would be like the eccentric older guys I occasionally rode the chairlift with when I was a teenager. Guys with ancient-looking skis and out-of-date parkas and mittens. Skiing wasn’t a social activity for them. They didn’t mind looking out of place. They were just there for the skiing.

Runnin’ up that hill

My siblings and I drove up to Mt. Hood Meadows and bought our lift tickets. We rode up the chairlift, which all by itself was thrilling.

To actually ski felt weird at first. I did a couple of snow-plow turns, then a couple of real turns, and then I was more or less back to form.

The ski trails were mostly the same. I remembered them from high school. But other things had changed. The skis were shorter and oddly shaped. People wore helmets. There were snowboarders to contend with. And of course, everyone was younger and speedier than I remembered.

After a couple easy runs, I was feeling pretty confident. I decided to check out some of the more difficult trails. So I dragged my brother over to one of the black diamond runs.

Looking down into it, I was shocked by how steep and formidable it looked. I used to ski down this? And then some 12-year-old shot past me and went flying straight down the face of it.

I decided against following him, and instead we found a trail that went along the ridge. Here we encountered a “jump.”

This was not a jump like you see on TV, where you do two back flips and a triple twist. This was a little bump off to the side of the trail, where if you could build up enough speed, you might go two or three feet into the air and land six feet from where you started.

Still, I’d loved jumps when I was a kid. My body reacted to the sight of it so strongly, I immediately sped up and steered right at it.

Unfortunately, it turned out to have a badly shaped landing. You basically stopped dead when you hit. I nearly rolled forward out of my ski boots. It was so jarring, I felt queasy in my stomach.

And then I had to get out of the way, so someone else could have that same experience.

Slow your roll

So that’s how it went. I found that I got bored cruising the easy runs. But whenever I tried something hard, I was outmatched.

After lunch, I made the decision to stick to the intermediate runs. I would do like the other middle-aged people, carving wide, graceful turns, taking it easy, getting into that elder-skier groove.

But then my problem became speed. Each time I did a run, I went a little faster. Soon, I was going a little too fast. But I couldn’t resist that downhill racer sensation.

And then I fell. I don’t know how. I must have “caught an edge.” One moment, I was leaning into a turn, and the next, I was face-planted into the hard pack.

I came to my senses with a face full of snow and my skis, hat, and goggles scattered all around me.

My brother pulled up behind me. He was scared. He said my wipeout looked bad. I told him it felt bad. Though as far as I could tell, I wasn’t seriously injured.

I sat there for several minutes, making sure I was OK. Then I rose to my feet. Eventually, I put my skis back on. Very gingerly, we made our way down.

But by the time we reached the chairlift, I felt fine. I was OK. And there was still time for a couple more runs. I assured my brother I could continue. And we got back in line.

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Dazed and confused

Riding the chairlift was when I realized something wasn’t right. My brain seemed slow. I couldn’t seem to focus. I would look at things and not really see them. Everything felt weird and slowed down and unreal.

I must have a concussion, I thought. So I gave myself a simple concussion test. What was my phone number? I thought about it. I thought about it more. I had no idea.

What about my address? What city did I live in? I couldn’t seem to hold any clear thought in my head.

I explained to my brother what was happening. He was concerned. We did one last easy-does-it run. Then we headed home.

Dark night of the soul

That night, back at my parents’ house, I did the concussion protocols. I stayed awake for 12 hours, took aspirin, drank water, lay on the living room couch, perfectly still, with a dark towel over my eyes. I now had a very sore neck and back. I could barely move. I probably had whiplash.

I was OK in the end. But that was a scary day. As I lay silent and still on the couch, I remembered a doctor on TV saying something like: “Most injuries I see are older people trying to do things they did when they were young.”

That was definitely me. I guess I learned my lesson. But I’d also learned the lesson that — for me at least — the desire to do those things, even when I KNEW I SHOULDN’T DO THEM, could be overwhelming.

In other words, it was best for me to stay off the ski slopes entirely. And maybe take up some new activities, things I’d never done before. Like softball. Or surfing. Or golf. Activities where memories of youthful glory wouldn’t get me into trouble.

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