Had an interesting talk about cougars with my daughter the other day. Not the four-legged mountain kind, the two legged she-cat kind.
“If I wasn’t married, I could be a Cougar,” I said.
Composure regained after a five minute laugh attack, my daughter dabbed the tears from her eyes.
“No, Mom, you can’t.”
I tried not to be offended but it wasn’t easy.
“Well, why not? I’ve still got some game … kinda.”
“Not to make you feel bad, but you’re missing the top three requirements necessary to be a Cougar. One, you’re not rich enough. Two, you’ve never had Botox. Three, you’re too old.”
Not rich enough? Doesn’t a good sense of humor and cooking a mean pasta sauce count? Oh …yeah. Older woman + younger man + no money = no honey. Made sense.
No Botox? Maybe I should call Angie at the dermatologist’s office and swap my age spot removal treatments for poisonous injections into my forehead. No good. that would ruin my chances of winning the Only Middle Aged Woman in the Los Angeles Area Who Never Tried Botox Annual Award.
Too old? Okay, that hurt.
“Well, exactly how old is a Cougar?” I asked, my curiosity getting the best of me.
“A cougar is a forty-something woman dating a twenty-something guy, Mom. Think you missed the boat on that one.”
“Only by a decade or two.
I wasn’t going down without a fight. I had to rally for all those non-cougar-wannabes who got their senior discount at the carwash.
“Then what would you call someone in my age bracket dating a young guy?” I asked in desperation.
She shuddered. “Scary.”
I gave it one last shot.
“C’mon, it’s not that horrifying. Work with me here. How about Silver Fox or Golden Gazelle?
“Give it up, Mom.”
“Maybe Post-menopausal Panther or maybe … wait, don’t walk away… how about……?”