Recently, it has come to my attention that I may qualify as a "cougar." For the uninformed, the eponymous site celebrating the cougar lifestyle, defines it as "it's a sophisticated species of female who seeks the pleasure of younger males. " In "sophisticated" they mean "over 35" and "pleasure" they mean "bow chicka bow," then maybe I am a cougar, an identity I do not proudly epouse. Yes I am 35*, a divorcee, and currently dating a younger man. However, I am a young 35. Typical of most San Franciscans, I suffer from arrested development. While I have never attending Burning Man, I can still discern between trance, garage, breaks, and downtempo. My bank balance hovers under $100 between the first of the month (when my rent is paid) and mid-month (when rent comes in). I still get carded at Trader Joe's and Zeitgeist. They call me "honey" or "sweetheart" at the doctor's office and bank.
I found further relief from my distress of being a cougar when interviewing several of my friends on the subject. They assured me that while regional definitions do vary, the concept of "cougar" embodies more of a Mrs. Robinson-type, 40ish divorcee, spending her ex-husband's alimony on Botox, tanning salons, and Lexus SUVs while she cruises the college bars for young studs. She may find her conquests in more familiar terms such as her tennis instructor or her son's fraternity brothers.
While I don't picture myself quite in this niche, as a woman closer to 40 than 25, I applaud the growing acceptance of May-December romances, positioning the female as the "December." (Thank you Demi Moore.) Woman my age look damn good. None of my friends over 30 looks her age. All are beautiful, sexy, luscious, and fun. And confident of themselves and accomplished. Maybe younger men are starting to appreciate this now. Hopefully their older counterparts can catch up. Grrr!!
*Postscript: Apparently, my status as an under-40 classifies me in the "puma" category.*
