THERE’S a cougar in the gymnasium. Yeah.
I’ve been keeping a close eye on her these past few weeks, and cougar she is.
Not the solitary cat-like creature who roams the wild American plains. Nope, a proper cougar!
She has long blonde hair, and her skin in so baked, I firmly believe she is lucky to have it.
She wears little tank-tops that show her stomach, and tight sweat pants; and she must be late 50s/sixtysomething.
She’s a cougar alright.
I kinda love her.
Actually, at first I hated her.
I went anti-woman on her ass. The first day I spotted her working out, I nearly fell off the treadmill. I kept looking around to see if anyone else was staring at this bizarre vision because, to be perfectly honest, from her get-up, I could only gather that that is exactly what she wanted people to do.
Well, I’d say she was aiming more for glances and approaches from the opposite sex, but instead she got me casting judgement.
“There is a cougar in my gym, can you believe it!” I screeched at the person lucky enough to go out with me, having already shared this information with all of my female companions.
“What’s a cougar? I’m going to have to presume you aren’t talking about the animal,” he says, with, and I don’t mind saying this, a hint of boredom in his voice.
“Well,” I say, “a cougar is, like, a woman who is over 45 and goes on the prowl for young fellas and the likes. For example, you’d be a cougar if you were a woman, given that I am younger than you – get it?”
“How do you know she’s a cougar?” he asks. And I already sense that he is going to try to rain on my parade.
“Well, I saw her, didn’t I, so I know,” I announced, in a very matter-of-fact manner, hoping that he would stop asking questions so I could continue my tirade.
“Yeah, I know you saw her, but you said a cougar was someone who chased men, was she chasing men in the gym?”
“No, she was not chasing men in the gym, BUT I saw her, AND I know she is a cougar. Only a cougar would wear that sort of gym gear. She is flirting through her clothes, like a teenager. I know these things.”
“So you have labelled this woman as a cougar, but you have absolutely no basis for this, other than what she looks like? Sounds to me ...”
“Damn straight she’s a cougar,” I say, cutting him off before he could lecture me. “I know a cougar when I see one.”
I make a silent note not to discuss cougars with him ever again ... I don’t need a moral compass, thank you kindly.
The next time I see the cougar I slyly study her, secretly praying she will launch herself at the next young fella who walks in, just so I will have a story to tell … and so I can say: “I told you so” to a certain person.
She lets me down, although I do catch her preening in the mirror, which is fair game as far as I’m concerned, given that I’m not adverse to that kind of behaviour myself.
It was when I was sweating like a little fat pig on some ridiculous piece of machinery that I came over all emotional, and this thought struck me – maybe I’d like to be cougar lady when I get to a certain age.
Many a time I’ve sworn not to let myself fall into that evil “older woman, older clothes” bracket. Why am I judging cougar lady so harshly? Is she not one of my own? Yes, yes, she is, I realised. I salute you, cougar lady. Well done (except for the tank-tops, those are unforgiveable).