Cougars, Lions, and Silver Foxes

Recently, on a business trip to New York, while also taking time to visit some of my favorite SoHo haunts, I over-heard a guy at Felixes telling his friend that he wasn’t looking for a “cougar” that evening. So, with my inquisitive mind working over-time and a tasteless mojito in hand, I invited myself into their conversation and asked them to please define a “cougar”. And, apparently, I wasn’t the only person who wanted the term defined because a woman who alleged she was twenty-nine, but looked more like a good forty-nine, turned around to tune in.

In any event, this 28-year-old investment banker, and dead ringer for Van Wilder, went on to describe a “cougar” as a woman who’s typically 30-years-old, and out on the prowl looking for some action. That’s right—30. Furthermore, according to Mr. Wilder, this type of woman is usually alone and having a few cocktails (martinis tend to be the drink of choice) while waiting to pounce on her unsuspecting, young prey. In addition, she’s typically attractive, well dressed, and looks like the only thing she’s in need of is companionship from a younger man. But, unfortunately, more often than not, these women take on the appearance of an over-weight, over-perfumed, and grandmotherly type who dresses in flashy clothing. I was speechless and not because I like flashy clothing.

Mr. Wilder, after grabbing the attention of everyone in earshot, with his "poignant" monologue, apparently derived from his sociology class dissertation, asked me my age. Without hesitation, and much confidence, I obliged and said, “I’m thirty-nine, soon to be forty in a few months.” One would have thought I gave away the secret formula to Tide because with much facial contortion, complete with bulging eyes, and the need to use his indoor voice, he screamed, “WOW!, I thought you were my age BUT you’re not only a “cougar”, you’re an old “cougar”!” That’s right-an old “cougar”.

Now, while I don't mind being called a fussy lion, a lioness (as I am a Leo), or occasionally a bitch, I was somewhat mortified when I was called a "cougar" … especially an old “cougar”. I mean one minute I’m being mistaken for a spry 28-year-old woman, and the next, I’m being called an old cat who drinks alone. Either way, I was ready to scratch his eyes out but opted to tame my fury by upgrading my watered-down mojito to a glass of champagne.

Honestly, how is it that an older (usually over 50), attractive man, who's out on the prowl, is called a “silver fox”, but change the gender, drop the age by ten years, and the “silver fox” is miraculously morphed into an “old cougar”? How does a single, "older" woman immediately become a broken down, lonely, old cat on the prowl?

It's been a long night ... it's time to drink my milk and retire to my lair.

No Need for Speed

In my opinion, the only thing wrong with the concept of speed dating is that the time doesn’t speed by fast enough. I know this because a few days ago, I pried myself away from my computer, tossed my agoraphobia aside, and attended a speed-dating event to prove I could finally find a date in Los Angeles, and keep a man’s attention for at least 3 minutes.

So that morning, rather than being annoyed by my neighbors less than stellar saxophone playing, I opened my windows and invited her “music” into my world. I suppose listening to her struggle with the notes quietly comforted me while I struggled with the idea of paying $35 to meet men.

Anyway, somewhere between drinking my morning coconut water and driving down the 101 headed towards the big event that evening; I got use to the idea of paying for love. But, I found myself wondering what would happen if I actually met the man of my dreams in 2 minutes or less. Would this be our “how we met” story, or would we feel compelled to concoct a new scenario? Or, what if the guy I liked was only there to write an expose on speed dating, and not in the least bit interested in meeting his soul mate? Perhaps my anti-social disease wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

As soon as I walked into the lounge, I ordered my special lemonade libation—lemons, Splenda, and vodka. Unfortunately, rather than calming my nerves, my drink made me manic because it was actually lemonade. Apparently, when I said vodka, the bartender didn't hear me and I ended up with a glass of sugar water rather than a glass of liquid courage.

But, instead of wasting my sugar high, I used it to talk up the restaurant manager, event coordinator, the assistant event coordinator, and a bitter, blond European woman smoking in the back of the room. Basically, what I wanted to know was quite simple--should I stay or should I go? And, more importantly, was a man’s phone number worth $35? Surprisingly, the restaurant manager was the only one who thought I should stay and said I’d make a killing because I was wearing a great outfit AND resembled Janet Jackson from her days on the 80s show "Fame". I didn’t know whether to thank him or ask where I could buy a bottle of Aquanet.

After pumping up the volume on my 80s hair and adjusting my shoulder pads, I found my seat at the “older professionals” table. The woman seated next to me, wearing Lee jeans and a Charter Club type blouse, reminded me of the secretary from The Bob Newhart Show. On my other side was a woman who looked like she was probably the former president of her high school 4-H club. Was I in their league or were they in mine?

In any event, before I could finish assessing the attributes of my other competitors, the whistle blew and the dating commenced. With stealth like moves, three older gentlemen descended upon our table and for the first time that evening, I was absolutely speechless.

While Bob’s secretary was busy telling her date that she was a high school principal, I was busy staring blankly into the eyes of Garrett Morris’ clone. Luckily, sensing I was nervous or simply not interested, he started asking me general, harmless questions about my life. And, even though I had no real interest in this man who was old enough to be my father, I decided to play along.

Not only was Garrett previously married; he was also widowed with 2 pre-teens at home. Now aside from being a bit needy in relationships, I also admit to occasionally lacking an internal censor when I’m nervous or at a loss for words. Much like when I asked Garrett if his kids were hoping that he brings home a new mommy. Did I actually say that? More importantly, if I did, did he hear me, and would he actually respond? He did and stoicly replied, “My kids wished me good luck and it was nice talking to you.”

As luck or LA statistics would have it, there were more women than men, and the event ended sooner than expected. But, even though I was pretty sure I didn’t get my $35 worth of conversation or potential dates, I learned a valuable lesson that night ... I have all the speed I need as I live my life in the slow lane.

Denim Diary

When it comes to trying on jeans, the one place where most women don’t want to do it is in public. But, when I was promised to save a lot of money on designer labels, I succumbed like the rest of the lemmings, followed the long line into the Los Angeles Convention Center, and hoped for the best.

In any event, while the dj’s club style music made the atmosphere outside the dressing room a little more party like, as soon as I tripped under the heavy blue, velvet curtain, into the large room full of mirrors and half-naked women, the dj’s needle seemed to skid across the vinyl, and the party in my head turned my reality into practically every woman’s nightmare—shedding your clothes and inhibitions in a large open room full of strangers.

See the problem with open dressing rooms is that you have to find your space, close to a mirror, and one that doesn’t encroach on another’s territory. For instance, when I finally found my small, sacred spot, another woman thought it would be cozy to share. No, this is not a space I want to share with a half-naked stranger while she attempts to squeeze herself into a pair of jeans by jumping, bending, and squatting in my face.

So, rather than evicting my new neighbor, I gathered my ten pair of jeans, politely vacated the premises, walked across the room, and found prime real estate! It was along the sturdy wall, next to a mirror, and had a rack to hang my unwanted jeans—it honestly couldn’t get better than this! I mean unlike the other wall, this one was stable so I imagined stragecially leaning upright rather than bending over revealing what underwear I selectively chose for the event.

As I secretly laughed to myself at the poor souls who were forced to get naked in the middle of the room, it occurred to me that for that moment in time, we were all searching for the same thing at the same time. We were looking for that piece of clothing that would nip, tuck, hide, squeeze, and ultimately show our best side to those people on the other side of the blue, velvet curtain.

It didn’t matter if the red head was a size 10 and she apparently needed a 12, or that the cute blonde had an amazing figure but more cellulite than yours truly, or even that the woman next to me shared that I wasn’t the only woman with an "ample" backside ... what mattered was that we showed up, en masse, for a common goal.

But, as I stood there daydreaming about our unspoken camaraderie, my dressing room bliss quickly decayed as yet another squatter entered my domain. However this time, since I was standing there with my pants around my ankles, I decided to make a stance and surprisingly, she didn’t leave! Did she feel comfortable invading my space because we had similar body proportions? Perhaps she saw me using the wall as a leaning mechanism and it appealed to her lack of balance? Whatever the case, it’s fair to say that if the dressing room police were on the premises, she would have received a ticket for invading personal space while not wearing appropriate undergarments!

One pair after another hit the floor and I became increasingly enraged that I couldn’t get a pair of jeans over my knees! Meanwhile, in my embarrassment, and to save face, I found it necessary to say out loud that the sizes must have been incorrectly marked or that someone must have taken my jeans off the rack and left me theirs. No matter the excuse, I witnessed eyes rolling and heads shaking … what happened to the sisterhood?! I was there for them as they did everything but grease their thighs with Crisco to get their jeans to “fit”, I cheered them on from the sidelines as they sometimes fell to the floor as if they were making a touchdown! What happened to the sisterhood when I needed a little support?

Either way, after two hours of searching for and trying on jeans, I didn’t know if I had it in me to repeat the process. It’s not like washing your hair where if you skip the repeat, your hair is still clean--I still didn’t have any jeans! But then I began to think that in such a short time, it was I who conquered prime real estate, created a sisterhood, and realized my tucas was bigger than I thought and still got half-naked in front of strangers! Therefore, it would be I who would go one more round and find the jeans of my dreams!!