Urban Dictionary.com defines a Cougar as "a 35+ year old female who is on the "hunt" for a much younger, energetic, willing-to-do-anything male. The cougar can frequently be seen in a padded bra, cleavage exposed, propped up against a swanky bar waiting, watching, calculating; gearing up to sink her claws into an innocent young and strapping buck who happens to cross her path. Man is cougar's number one prey."
Okay, so according to the esteemed Urban Dictionary, I don’t exactly emanate the essence of cougar. But wouldn’t you agree that I’m well on my way? And what’s the diff between a cougar and a spinster? Is it a couple of years… or a Wonderbra?
Why all this cougar talk, you ask? Well, even though I don’t feel old nor proclaim with any legitimacy to be old or skeezy, I positively felt ancient at a party I went to this weekend. At my new roomie’s friend’s place on Saturday night, upon entering, I came face-to-face with my great grand-dot from Tridelt (For those non-versed in the ways of the Delta, that makes her my little sis’s little sis’s little sis.) The good news is that I had no idea she was in the city and we shrieked in true sorostitute fashion like all good Deltas are sworn to do upon initiation. The bad news: everyone at the soiree was 21 or so, and I kept hearing, “This is my Great Grand-Mom!” Truly it’s a rare occasion that I am the oldest person at a party (well, actually Kelly was the oldest by a month, so haha.)We sat on the couch while the young hotties of New York kvelled and we kvetched, and that’s when it hit me - I’m sort of a cougar! As the fit and foxy congregated in their trendy, youthful garb, I felt like I was wearing “mom jeans” and a braided belt. (I wasn’t, and my hair looked phenomenal, but anyways, it was that kind of feeling.)
One night isn’t enough to make me a cougar, I guess… but I think I may have mentioned To Date or Not to Date, Part Deux. Yes, I know I swore off dating after the substandard mediocrity that was Match.com – but would I really be Big Apple Angie if I wasn’t constantly out there trying to make a fool of myself for the comedic benefit of the populace? I won’t dish too much now, but I will say that I am learning how to scam and scheme and scope the men at all sorts of establishments from a legitimate expert. I really can’t help but wonder, does one need a plan to find a man? Time will tell.
In other random news, I feel like I’m on summer vacation. This feeling defies reason because I still have to work every day. Maybe it’s because summer in New York is special, not something you take for granted. Since last Independence Day was spent recovering from the neck/back trauma of the car accident, I want to have a rousing good time this year. I’m headed to a beach, somewhere, somehow. I’ve never taken a train or a ferry or a cab or a bus to the beach before, so this will be an experience. I half expect to arrive and see a couple heaps of medical waste, some syringes and a few crackheads sprinkled liberally along the coastline, but rumor has it the beaches are actually nice. Stay tuned.
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