Cougar Country

Some of you have complained about my lack of entries of late. Truth be told, the freelance writing biz put a squeeze on the budget and I’m back in the working mom world at a 9-to-5. Which leaves precious little time for blogging...but here we go.

I was minding my business at Trader Joe’s when a young male clerk started chatting me up. Since everyone at Traders is clearly delighted to be working there and usually chats everybody up, I thought nothing of it. But as I gathered my bags full of nitrate-free turkey bacon and two buck chuck, the following comment from a fellow TJ’s employee rang loudly in my ears: “Joey sure likes the cougars!”

I paused. I turned. I pretended not to hear the good natured laughter aimed at Joey, and I presumed, me. As I left the store I honestly could not decide whether I was flattered, insulted, or both. For those of you not up to speed on the new definition of another word for a California mountain lion, a cougar is a “Hot, 40-something female on the prowl for younger men.”

Hot? Me?? I clean up pretty good but that particular day I was looking anything but hot or on the prowl. Still, I have to admit as I pondered the incident and relayed it to my amused 50-something husband, I was at least flattered to be noticed. As a mom, I don’t often feel especially sexy, so being singled out by a man half my age gave my ego a much needed boost. But here’s the rub: I’m not sure sexy is the look I’m aiming for at 48 ½.

Let’s consider Cloris Leachman. I don’t watch Dancing With the Stars, but I know millions of people saw her shimmy and shake her bodacious 82-year old ta-ta’s in the faces of a nearly speechless panel of judges for several weeks before she was booted off. And while she garnered a fair amount of praise for her hutszpa, I’m not aspiring to be an octogenarian who looks good enough to dance on reality TV. Is being Botox-ed, artificially bronzed and harnessed into a Miracle Bra what passes for aging gracefully these days?

I started working out with a trainer last week. Spending eight hour days in a cubicle does nothing for a girl’s rear view, and I’m not willing to concede defeat to middle age spread just yet. So I’m on the elliptical machine and upon learning my age, my trainer, this muscle-bound boy of about 22 exclaims “Wow – you look good!” A few minutes later as I was laboring over crunches he pronounced, “Just think, you’re gonna be a smokin’ hot grandma!”

Uh-huh. If you’re like me the terms “smokin hot” and “grandma” used together creep you out. Because where I come from, grandmas wear house dresses and support hose and offer the plush comfort of a soft lap (not rock hard abs) to sink into. So I guess what I need to figure out is what aging gracefully means for me. I’m not planning to let myself go (hey, I am working out with a trainer). But I don’t want to become so obsessed with looking young that I end up being one of those women who makes heads turn for all the wrong reasons – face lift gone bad, boob job gone south.

For now, I’ll content myself with enticing my unsuspecting prey in the organic vegetable isle at Trader Joe’s. After all, I’m not a grandma yet.