The Cougar Cometh (L)

Cougar refers to an older woman, usually in her 40s-60s[11] who sexually pursues younger men in their 20s or early 30s. (Wikipedia)
A woman in same age group who from little to no fault of her own resembles one. (Linda)

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Here’s where it starts. I’m 4, I have outrageously curly auburn hair, big brown eyes, skin that tans and a bit of a pudgy nose. I’m precocious in a way that adults like because they can get me to go on stage and read things, but secretly find irritating. I once told a man in a flea market who was “cussin’” to watch his language. I’m 9, people tell me I have beautiful brown eyes, I blush, inside, because no matter how I try I can’t blush that gentle pink flush that fair blondes achieve, making them look sweet. I want to be sweet. I read Heidi over and over again thinking somehow with one more read I’ll be kind and gentle and raising baby goats. I start telling my parents I love them every day before school, because that’s what sweet girls do. It’s about 2 weeks before “I hate you and wish you were dead” slips out of my mouth again. Because my life isn’t sweet, this is the phrase my parents have earned. But I want to twinkle and glide despite them.

My father is blind, this means that I get to hear people telling him all the time how pretty I am. This also means he can’t buy his own beer. From that fact many ugly things are born. My parents not having enough money to buy me braces is probably the fairest of them all. My teeth grow more crooked, my face grows longer while my eyes stay the same size. That’s the last I will hear about my big brown eyes. That's the last I will hear about how “pretty” I am.

It is many years before I will hear someone give a new label to my looks. “Sexy”. I am 21 with long dark curly hair and dark eyes. My legs are long and lean and I don’t like to hide them. I’m no remarkable beauty and I don’t have a trace of sweet in me. Sexy? It seems with these particular features I have two choices. I can roll with it or I can slap on some Birkenstocks and grow out my leg hair.

I roll with it for years and years, but after three babies and 35, sexy is a bit of a desperate stretch, unless you’re Susan Sarandon. I am not. I fumble for a new label. My hair always gives me away. I try cutting it shorter, it just gets bigger, my new label could be “crazy hair lady”. I keep my long curly hair.

After many months of peering at me appraisingly, my posh Brit neighbor finally reveals her greatest Pygmalion tool, the straightening iron. My God, I can finally brush my hair, it feels so soft, it is so flat! Oh, but look at all the split ends, time for a major cut and how about some side bangs? With my propensity toward scar hiding scarves and in my capris, I’m looking rather yuppyish. Suddenly, any inner sexy I might have left is a secret. I am disguised as a soccer mom. Strange men look at me more. Men like a challenge. I do not like strange men, but I like finally being noticed as something other than sexy. I can join book clubs and not get dirty looks from the women dressed like pilgrims. I like this, I’m playing a new role. I finally have a new mask.

I have to buy a new dress for my niece’s graduation. I pick out a form fitting one. What’s the point of not being fat if that’s a secret too? It is tight, sleeveless, patterned, an appropriate length. My new scar hiding necklace of many metals puts one in mind of Floridians who think they’re artistic. My straight conservative hair brushes the edges of the dress and necklace. There is an essence of left over sexy. I look like something, I step back from the mirror squinting, something I am not, yet…
Next year, I’ll be forty. The Cougar Cometh.



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Dear Mrs. Hottie McHotterson...

Please come to my 21st birthday bash; all of my friends from the football team will be there and I really would like to show you around campus. Do you think any of the other catwomen from Hottietown will be able to join you? I think they'd like my friends.

Anxiously awaiting your reply,

Cutie McCalendarboy