Sometimes. When I am lucky. I do not need to search for article ideas. Instead, amongst my frozen tequila drinks served at happy hour on a brisk Sunday afternoon, article ideas fall out of the proverbial gay sky.
I was wearing nothing too unusual. Just the typical stretch black dress, sunflower button-up, leopard scarf, vintage football themed purse and mouse shoes. An average ensemble. Actually, the look resembled a “Clueless” get-up, if only I had knee-high socks and platform wedges. I had undoubtedly had one too many drinks far too early in the day, but Libby and I could not pass up Moby Dick’s for a 2-4-1 special. Sipping on sex on the beach and recollecting on the Sunday that ceased to be, a man approached me with phone in hand. “You would love my Halloween costume!” “Why,” I asked, knowing he was about to compare my aesthetic to his drag persona. “Because I looked exactly like you! I was a cougar.” I gagged. A cougar? I did hope he was referring to my lioness mane as opposed to my apparent resemblance to Dina Lohan. After I regained consciousness, I decided to allow him continue his rant about the Heather Locklear’s of the world. I decided to refrain my age. I did not know if being 21 was an embarrassment or an accomplishment. Either way, I am far too young to be placed within the cougar pack.
Let me analyze my existence as if I am indeed a 21-year-old cougar. Have I already reached my sexual peak? Or am I just now entering it? Was I at 7, what my friends are now? If I am forced to continue my cougar ways, does that mean my male selection is now limited to those ranging from the ages of 18 to 20? (I would say minors, but God might be reading) Have I literally come parallel to my mother? Should we both start diving into the same dating pool? And what’s next? If I am already appearing the age of a washed-up stockbroker, can I be nearing the end of my reign? After cougar comes corpse. Oh no.
Flip it. Imagine the positive aspects. Tailored suits. Salt and pepper hair. Enough cash to buy haute couture at wholesale price. Imported leather briefcases. Stilettos worn once, then thrown away. Pictures of children you hate and grandchildren you hate even more. Prescription pills. Dinner parties at estates, rather than at apartments. Maids. Botox. Divorce! Summary? The life my mother could have lived, if she had listened to her daughter.
Once one enters cougar-dom, one cannot turn back. Suddenly, they are no longer the sugar baby. Forever and always, a sugar mama. I don’t think I am ready to make the financial commitment. At least for now I am not ashamed of coke nails matched with a chiffon blouse. Or pantyhose (not tights) paired with a St. John cocktail mini. Business exec meets Cyndi Lauper meets Christopher Walken. Picture it now.