I was fortunate enough to get away for a Girls Weekend recently. We went to Asheville, NC - if you ever have the chance to go, you should. It's a great little mountain town, with an artsy, crunchy vibe to it.
Friday night, we were very lame. After the drive, some shopping, dinner and a couple of drinks, I think we all fell asleep around 11:30.
Well rested, we attacked Saturday like a bunch of starving vultures. We shopped, we ate, we stopped in for a bit of "The Truth," a local micro-brewery's latest creation, and hit the stores again.
Saturday night, we ate a great tapas style dinner, and on our way out, began talking to a nice young girl who is from Durham and works as a nanny when she's not in school at UNC-A. She was with a date and his friend, (both much closer to my age than hers). We ran into them again later at a bar and played a round of darts (we also managed to snag a business card of hers, since she's going to be in the triangle over Christmas break). Stacy Jo, you can expect a call from me this week, by the way...
In between the round of darts, I was waiting on a pitcher of beer at the bar and started chatting with a couple of boys. I'll strike up a conversation with anybody. I love talking to people. Well, to be specific, I love starting up conversations and just listening to people. It can be fascinating. But these people were young. Little boys. And by little, I mean it was someones 21st birthday type little boys, and I'd bet my pitcher of beer that several of the other ones had fake IDs. They were fairly uninteresting to listen to, so once I got my pitcher, I went back to darts.
A little while later, we were discussing the youths (who had now begun playing darts next to us). We decided that one of them had hair like my friend's 5 year old (but a 21 year old fraternity boy version). Her son has these loose, tousled, angelic little curls that you hate to cut because they might just decide to go away forever. So someone suggested that I take a picture. So I walked over, and asked if I could take his picture.
He asked me if I was a Cougar.
A COUGAR??????
I laughed, told him not to flatter himself, took the picture and walked away. Mortified.
While I recognized that they were a lot younger than I am, what I failed to recognize was that when you are 21 anything over 30 is ancient. Seeing as young men tend not to think from their cerebral cortex, in their eyes, there was only ONE reason I could have wanted to talk with them. To them, I was Mrs. Robinson.
coo coo cuh choo.
I am having a little trouble wrapping my mind around the fact that someone even thinks I am old enough to even be called a cougar. Here's my visual of a cougar: a chain smoking, bejewelled sweatsuit wearing, fake tanned, raspy voiced, white zinfandel drinking, sex-starved, divorcee.
I suppose that perhaps I should be flattered. Courtney Cox might be giving cougars a new image with her sitcom, Cougartown (I haven't seen it yet). But frankly, I just felt like a dirty old woman. I went back to my beer and thanked God that I don't have to deal with 21 year old boys anymore. I don't even think I liked them when I was 21.
A little while later, we were discussing the youths (who had now begun playing darts next to us). We decided that one of them had hair like my friend's 5 year old (but a 21 year old fraternity boy version). Her son has these loose, tousled, angelic little curls that you hate to cut because they might just decide to go away forever. So someone suggested that I take a picture. So I walked over, and asked if I could take his picture.
He asked me if I was a Cougar.
A COUGAR??????
I laughed, told him not to flatter himself, took the picture and walked away. Mortified.
While I recognized that they were a lot younger than I am, what I failed to recognize was that when you are 21 anything over 30 is ancient. Seeing as young men tend not to think from their cerebral cortex, in their eyes, there was only ONE reason I could have wanted to talk with them. To them, I was Mrs. Robinson.
coo coo cuh choo.
I am having a little trouble wrapping my mind around the fact that someone even thinks I am old enough to even be called a cougar. Here's my visual of a cougar: a chain smoking, bejewelled sweatsuit wearing, fake tanned, raspy voiced, white zinfandel drinking, sex-starved, divorcee.
I suppose that perhaps I should be flattered. Courtney Cox might be giving cougars a new image with her sitcom, Cougartown (I haven't seen it yet). But frankly, I just felt like a dirty old woman. I went back to my beer and thanked God that I don't have to deal with 21 year old boys anymore. I don't even think I liked them when I was 21.
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