I was innocently watching something on TV the other night when an ad for a "cougar" dating site popped up. It was called OlderWomenWithoutBoundaries.com or something like that. Naturally, I had to run to the computer to check it out -- not because I am one (a cougar), mind you, but because I needed good laugh.
I found there are actually several dating sites for cougars (none for pumas, panthers or housecats, however). I logged onto CougarLife.com because it said it was #1 in cougar dating; it was rated four claws. Across the top of the home page was a picture of a blond woman reclining on the floor, wearing a robe and panties. I knew I had found the right site, not because of her outfit, but because as a woman over a certain age (mubledly-something), I know that reclining is the best position to be photographed in. It relieves the pull of gravity on breasts, derriere, and jowls. It's the poor woman's plastic surgery. Those who can afford surgery never lie down. They can't. Everything is too tight. Just ask Joan Rivers.
According to CougarLife.com, a cougar is a woman in her PRIME (Prefers Rauncy and Immature Men Exclusivey). She must also be independent, sexy and wildly successful. Apparently, I couldn't be a cougar even if I wanted. I've got the independent part down and with a day at the spa, the right lighting, and a myopic partner, can fake the sexy, but no one would ever mistake me for wildly successful. I don't even own a BlackBerry. Or a briefcase. The IRS scoffs at my income tax returns every April.
But, back when I was 32, I met a guywhile out dancing who was right out of college. I wasn't "on the prowl," as cougars are known to be. I just enjoy dancing and the only men who could keep up with me at the time were in their 20s. I was both a marathon runner and an aerobics teacher and had the stamina of a hummingbird. Today I have the stamina of a well-fed penguin.
Had there been such a term at the time, I guess I qualified as a cougar. I was even much more wildly successful, if by successful you mean "earning enough money to go out dancing twice a week." However, I made the ultimate cougar mistake. After only a few months of dating, I married the "cub" as they're known in cougarese. If this happened today, I would have been kicked out of the den because everyone knows that if you're closer in age to his mother than him, things are going to get weird quickly.
Occasionally I still dress up, put on make-up and go out. And I'm often mistaken for a cougar because I am a) out by myself, b) clearly single, and c) not wearing orthopedic shoes and Mommy jeans. But the only young men I'm on the prowl for are those who can reroof my house or snake my drains. And I mean those without a hint of sexual innuendo. Although if the cubs are willing to do either for a quick roll in the hay, who knows. I am wildly unsuccessful and could use a financial break. Besides, I'm reclining anyway.
One of my favorite local bands (The Valley Boys) played yesterday at a nearby park. It was a beautiful day, there was no cover charge, and I'd just bought a funky new skirt, so naturally I went.
I've noticed that when it comes to dancing there are four kinds of people: the "this music is disturbing my napping" people; the "I'll tap my toes while in my lawn chair" people; the "I'll dance if there are at least ten people already out there so no one looks at me" people; and the "I'll stand in front of the stage until the music starts playing and I won't leave until the band goes on break or my knees do" people. Guess which one I am. That's right, the latter.
I don't wait for someone to ask me to dance. That seems silly, like waiting someone to ask me to go to the movies or take recess. If I want to do something, it's up to me to do it. I am not a fan of waiting for anything I enjoy. Not to mention the fact that I've found that guys often misinterpret saying "yes" to dancing as saying "yes" to other things. In my case, marriage. And I've had enough of that, thank you. I dance better without a ring on my finger. Plus, I like to dance around.
Some observers think it's sad to see a woman dancing by herself or with a group of other women and children. I feel so sorry for those people. If they'd look closely they'd see we're the ones with the big grins on our faces. It's the "oh, I guess she can't get anyone to dance with her" crew who look miserable.
You meet the most interesting people out on a dance floor -- or a dance field, in this case. There was the missing-a-tooth guy from Chicago dressed in sweats despite the 77-degree day. He kept mumbling, "Well, it's not Chicago." I don't know whether he was happy about that or not, but the man could boogie and didn't need a partner to do so. I also met a woman who recently moved to Oregon from Phoenix. She managed to get her 10-year-old son to shake his groove thing for a few songs from the 60s. Now there's good mothering for you. A line of four teenage boys who originally stood on the sidelines mocking the lame music, later found themselves actually having a good time despite themselves. They started a conga line and we older folks happily joined them. A women in her 70s with a deep tan and a bejeweled hat that read "Outlaw" kicked up her heels -- literally -- almost the whole time I was out there. She came with a group from a retirement home (they arrived in a large van) and was clearly happy to be out on furlough.
What a great time we all had. I hope you've had a chance to dance lately. And keep in mind, the longer you wait for someone to ask, the less music you'll have to groove to.
Okay, enough already. I know it's almost July 4th, but if I have to be bombarded by one more night of illegal fireworks going off at the schoolyard down the street, I'm going to have to put on my bathrobe, put my hair in curlers, light a cigarette, and go scare me some young men. And you know I'm serious if I'm willing to let a cigarette touch my lips!
Yes, all the other boys are blowing their fingers off too, but that's no reason for you to wake me up at 2:30 a.m. from a dream in which I'm bathing in chocolate as swarthy Greek men who are also mute fan me with magnolia branches. And every time something goes boom, my dogs insist on barking for a full 15 minutes afterward, despite my assuring them that mom will kill the idiots later. Needless to say, I almost woke up on the wrong side of the law this morning.
It's not a good sign when immediately after checking my e-mail and Facebook page, I Google"tasers" trying to find out their range. Not far enough if you ask me. I want to be able to do my damage without being seen. I have a reputation as the funny lady on the street - don't want to ruin it with evildoing. Although after a few more sleepless nights, I won't care.
What is the connection between teenage boys (mostly) and their fathers (occasionally) taking to the streets to create a veritable war zone to celebrate our freedoms? Sure, there was firepower involved in becoming the United States of America, but there was also signing of documents, peaceful protesting, sewing of flags, education of children, survival of the elements, wearing of funny shoes with buckles on them, etc. So why is it that we don't see thread and fabric stands going up every June so that all the children can stitch together their own American flags? I'm sure emergency room docs would much prefer a few finger-pricks than having to sew whole digits back on because kids forget to let go of the bottle rocket.
I love a good 4th of July fireworks display as much as the next person, but one night is enough. And those booms are usually muffled by the sounds of the 1812 Overture or Beyonce's All the Single Ladies. That I can live with. Especially if I've had a margarita beforehand and it's not 3:30 in the morning.
So boys, take my advice and leave the explosives to the professionals. Or I'm going to have to get my revenge. I'm thinking I'll show up at your house at a time you're sleeping, say 2:00 p.m., and tell graphic jokes about menopause into a bullhorn on your front lawn. You celebrate freedom your way, I'll celebrate mine.
If you're over 40 you really should rethink any decision that ends up with you wearing an article of clothing with the word "Juicy" on it. In particular, if you are, say, 60-something and wandering Valley River Center in Eugene wearing a t-shirt that reads, "No shoes, no shirt, no juicy," perhaps you need someone to explain just exactly what it is you are advertising.
Don't get me wrong, I'm fine wearing clothes that belong on sixteen-year-olds. I almost bought a purple Hello Kitty bathrobe today while shopping for a new bra (my old one has bark-o-mulch permanently embedded in the fabric). But there are certain phrases I believe adult women should not plaster across their chests or backsides. In addition to "Juicy" these include:
o Ask me about the twins
o Kiss me, I'm drunk
o B is for Bitch
o I've got Bieber Fever
o I'm with stupid. He's my son
Also avoid any t-shirt printed with a mock hard-bodied bikini-wearer on the front. You'd have to hold your stomach in all day and who can live up to that kind of pressure?
On the other hand, there are some "adult" t-shirts that are just as wrong. For example, I actually spotted a woman wearing a shirt that said "MILF." This is wrong on so many levels: First, the sentiment is obnoxious and sexist. Where are the "DILF" shirts? And why do young men think their desire to F someone is a compliment, considering there's almost no one and nothing that doesn't fit in that category? Second, what is the woman wearing the shirt trying to say? That she'd like to F herself? Because that's what the shirt implies. And third, the shirt looks like it says "MILE" from afar and it's disturbing to put on your reading glasses just to see how wrong you were.
And please, back away from anything advertising yourself as a "Cougar" even if you are proud to be one. In fact, just to be safe, don't buy any athletic wear from Puma.
Anyone who watches any television at all knows that women over 25 spend 95% of the their time trying to reduce the appearance of fine lines and wrinkle and lengthen and restore their eyelashes. If I see Sarah Jessica Parker hawking anti-aging creams or that model with the shiny eyelashes that are long enough to get caught in her earrings one more time, I may just have to get Botox to rid myself of the semi-permanent scowl they've both caused.
I know we're all a little vain -- I DID comb my hair before leaving the house this morning and check to make sure my skirt was NOT tucked in my pantyhose -- but imagine if we freed up all that time to do more important things such as stalk BP executives until they fix the oil gush in the Gulf of Mexico, run for political office, or even just breathe. The world would be a much better place. And I imagine breathing probably would make our lashes grow too.
The oddest part is that every study shows that anti-aging creams don't work, yet there's a new one promising us miracles every few weeks or so. I'm tempted to bottle up some Oregon rain, toss in a little moss for color and authenticity, and sell it as an anti-aging mist. It sure does keep my skin moist through most of the fall and winter. And spring. And summer. And even though apparently we can grow new eyelashes (if we're willing to accept itching, redness, eye color change, and lashes that block our view when we put on glasses), why do we need to? Men our age have hair growing out of their ears and they seem okay with that.
I bet that all of these products include fossil fuel-based ingredients (and their packaging certainly does), so if we all stopped using them right now we'd save not only money and time, but help cut our addiction to oil. If you want to do your part to help save the planet, just toss a towel over the mirror if you must and make friends with people who could care less how deep your lines are or whether you have lashes long enough to swat away flies.
On the advice of Dr. Oz and this guy I sat next to at the Department of Motor Vehicles, I've started adding flax seed to everything I eat. It's tasty sprinkled on cereal and baked into cookies (mmmh, cookies), but I have to say it's hard to get the seeds to stick to carrot sticks unless I slather them with cream cheese first. I'm sure that's heart-healthy, right?
One thing no one warned me about was that these tiny seeds may be good for my body, but they're hell on my gums. And I'm not just talking about a few flax stuck between random teeth (not a good look, but I could live with that).
The problem is, like many middle-aged people, I have flabby gums. The tight, firm gums that used to turn heads in college have been replaced by droopy, saggy things that shock my dentist when I show up at her office every three years. I'd go more often, but my self esteem suffers every time she uses a yardstick to measure just how deep the "gum pockets" areIt doesn't help that she calls out the numbers in the metric system.
Needless to say, with a virtual Carlsbad Cavern cave system under my teeth, it's easy for tiny seeds to get stuck in there. That is not to say I haven't also lost a piece of coconut, a chocolate chip, or a hiker, but those are big enough to floss out.
What I really need -- and I know I'm not alone here -- is some kind of exercise program to tighten up my sedentary gums. If you can work out your triceps and gluts, why not your gum line? I tried to develop such a program on my own, but apparently a 30-minute routine of smiling like a chimpanzee then puckering like a llama about to spit, is useless. Well, not entirely. I did make a few new friends on the bus.
If you're a dental professional looking for a way to boost business, please don't ignore the flabby-gummed. We need some kind of workout device and the Gumerciser may just be your ticket to a stint on the Home Shopping Network.
I'm convinced that I have picked one of the best places in the U.S. to be an aging woman. My selection system may differ slightly from the ones used by people whose job it is to decide where it's best to be single, raise a family, retire, or just annoy your neighbors. I didn't factor in the number of hospitals nearby (2), continuing education opportunities (lots), or weather (mildew with a 40% chance of moss outbreak). But I did take into consideration the important stuff.
1. Comfortable shoes. There are places in the U.S. where women over 50 still feel compelled to wear heels on occasion. What are they, on drugs? They must be, given the amount of pain I experience every time I attempt to shove my foot into any shoe narrower than my foot (whose idea was that anyway?), especially when that shoe tries to make me walk on my tiptoes. I don't want to tiptoe. I want to walk, dammit. And as much as I love Oprah, I don't need stilettos to look sexy sitting down in. What I need are shoes I can jog down the street in if a sudden shower erupts or there's a stray dog who needs saving. In Eugene, OR, it is not at all unusual to see women of all ages decked out for the opera or ballet in a nice cocktail dress and Birkenstocks. Or, my favorites, Dansko. Believe me, we can get where we're going without complaining about our aching feet.
2. Weird hairstyles. You can dye it or you can pluck out the strays (until the strays are all you have left, then you should stop), but chances are your hair is grayer and kinkier than it used to be. In places like Los Angeles and New York, trendy hair is important. In my little neck of the woods, dreadlocks are still considered a valid hair choice. It's almost impossible to find the wiry sprouts when you look like your hair's been mixed in a blender full of honey and mud. And if dreads are too kinky for you, you can wear a funny hat and call yourself a goddess. Believe me, no one in this town will notice.
3. Tattoos. Sure they're trendy for all age groups, but what more convenient way to remember your ATM password than having it tatooed on your upper thigh?
4. Tie dye. If you don't already know, Eugene is where tie dye went to die, but it got stoned and forgot. Tie dye is the ultimate anti-aging pattern. It draws people into to its vortex of turquoise and blue and yellow, thus effectively distracting them from your crows' feet and double chins. "I'm sorry officer, I couldn't really focus on her face. She could have been 20, but she could have been 70. She could have been a he. There may have been a mustache. Although that doesn't mean it wasn't a woman." Tie dye also hides a multitude of sins -- muffin top, beer belly, mid-menopausal pregnancy because you accidentally took two gingko pills and no birth control...
5. Aging hippies. I was not one of the original hippie chicks, so my boobs were harnessed by a bra throughout the 70s (they arrived fashionably late), 80s, 90s, oh-ohs, etc. Thus, I haven't experienced the continental drift many of the free-spirited and free-boobied women living here have. There are a lot of breasts gone south and by comparison, mine look young and perky. Especially in tie dye.
I knew I was gonna love this town when I moved here sixteen years ago. I just didn't know why until now.
I got my hair cut last week. It used to be so easy to do -- I'd pick out a hairstyle from a magazine, rip out the page, and take it with me to the hairdresser. Then we'd both laugh and laugh at the idea that my hair might actually do something "stylish." On occasion, I showed up with pages from DogFancy magazine, but that was mostly during my poodle cut years.
When you're a woman of a certain age (I refer to it as "mumbledy-something"), getting your hair cut requires deep introspection and a review of societal expectations. If I keep my hair longish, for example, does that make me look younger or does it just make me look like I'm trying desperately to hold onto my youth? One thing longer hair does for certain is fool men walking behind you into thinking you're a babe with whom they would like to hook up. Then when you turn around, they discover you're a cougar with whom they might like to hook up if a babe isn't available. It's a fun game and one of the reasons I've kept my hair long for the past five years.
On the other hand, if I cut my hair short, am I jumping on the midlife hairstyle bandwagon? And if so, what types of drinks do they serve there? Is a "to-the-chin" hairstyle part of the middle-aged woman's uniform, along with black slacks, a well-positioned scarf, and a mood-swing ring? Or does it say to the world, "I am not my hair!" Because that message is definitely preferable to "I am not my bladder."
I had very short hair for much of my life. I also had a lot more estrogen back then and didn't have to worry that I might be mistaken for a guy. My Lauren Hutton-like voice these days doesn't do much to convince people otherwise.
I did all the soul-searching I could bear. Afterward, I did some key-searching and headed off to the salon, where I closed my eyes and said to the stylist, "Do whatever you want as long as it's not a mullet." After all, there are some styles even a dog-groomer shouldn't revisit.
My hair is now shortish, but it still moves when I shake my head a dog with ear mites. And if this cut says I'm a midlife woman who's done trying to convince people I'm anything but, good! Now, where'd I put those black pants and that scarf?
Last week, I read a magazine article on how to stay young-looking, and among the expected advice -- eat well, exercise, don't squint while reading articles on how to stay young-looking -- was this tip, which has has caused me to lose sleep four days in a row : Don't sleep on your side. You'll add fine lines (or in my case, fault lines) and wrinkles to that one side. Not only will you look older than if you sleep on your back, you'll look lopsided.
Yikes! So now I'm not only supposed to worry how I dress, what hairstyle I choose, how often I floss and have my peach-fuzz of a mustache attended to, I also have to concern myself over what goes on while I'm sleeping? As a "curled on my side in the fetal position" type of sleeper, this advice brings up a whole new set of questions about aging I've never had to think about before. For example:
o If I can't sleep on my back (never have been able to), would my next best option be propping myself up in a doorway? Or would I just end up wrinkle-free, but with bags under the eyes that would cost extra to check in at the airport? Or should I try strapping myself by the ankles and hanging from the closet rod?
o What if I start off on my back, but out of habit roll towards my side during my sleep? Is there some kind of device to gently nudge me back into the preferred snoozing position? A mini-electrical shock, say, or one of those extreme tire damage-type of devices?
o If I lie on my back, but a 23-lb. dachshund decides to splay his sleeping form over my eyebrows, will this add to my wrinkles or will it be like a mini-facelift all night long? And what if the other dachshund who will undoubtedly use my exposed stomach as a mini-trampoline to get to the other side of the bed twenty or thirty times during the night? Will the additional abdominal toning make up for the lack of shut-eye?
o If I smooth enough anti-aging night cream on my face (and neck and chest and shoulders and arms and duodenum...) before retiring to bed, won't that keep my face from sticking to my pillow and creating extra lines? Or do I need a Teflon pillow?
Personally, I think that losing sleep over worrying about what may or may not make you look your age will make you grumpy and friendless. I'm going to stick with my laugh lines and crows feet and sleep in the position that is most comfortable and protects me from leaping wiener dogs. I recommend you do the same.
Dating in the Dark is a new reality TV show (if by "reality TV" you mean "show that attempts to discover how shallow people are willing to act in front of millions of viewers who have nothing better to do with their time.) I haven't seen the show, but I have seen the commercials. Which is why I haven't seen the show. Well, that and the fact that occasionally I DO have a life.
From what I can glean from 30-second ads, the show features three men and three women who meet as a group in total darkness, then they arrange for individual dates also in the dark. Some of them apparently just chat the entire time while others take the opportunity to make out with a complete stranger who may or may not be Carrot Top (that would be my biggest nightmare).
Then they expose the contestants to each other under the harsh reality of fluorescent light and each must decide whether they want to see the other again now that they've seen their bad hair, hippie shoes, or birthmark shaped like the state of Texas. These decisions are made on the show, with a guy or a girl waiting on the patio to see whether or not he or she will be dumped. Because it's important that we all share in the humiliation and ego-deflation. Apparently these shows are produced by middle-schoolers. I'm suprised the dumpees aren't also given wedgies as the final credits roll.
It appears that the mean age of the contestants on this show is mid-twenties, which makes sense. Because if they were, say, in their 40s, the producers would have a hard time getting an hour-long show out of it. A typical "date" might go like this:
Midlife Woman: Wow, it really is dark in here.
Midlife Man: I like it. I have more hair in the dark.
MLW: And I DO NOT have a muffin top.
MLM: Wanna make out?
MLW: Sure, but don't tell my grandkids.
MLM: You have grandkids? Uh, cut!
Or, perhaps, this is equally likely:
MLW: So, what made you decide to come on this show? Did your wife dump you for cheating on her and then you decided you should go ahead and play the field as long as you had some Viagra left, but the cute blonde receptionist at your periodontist's office laughed at you and called you a "Mougar"?
MLM: Yeah, but it was the dental hygenist...
MLW: I'm outta here.
It's not that midlife daters are picky, it's just that with age is supposed to come wisdom and surely part of that wisdom is knowing that someone you meet on a reality TV show filmed without lights will probably not live up to a very strict set of criteria. And once you've been married to or dated a sex addict, a meth dealer with a gambling problem, and Carrot Top, well, you tend to want to make sure that at least those items are checked off the list. I know I am.
If I were dating, I'd definitely demand the lights stay on -- despite the fact that I look younger in semi-darkness. Call me pick or call me wise. It's your choice.