Feline Groovy

I was already home, peering into the bathroom mirror for my nightly wrinkle inspection and giving myself faux facelifts with my palms. My phone slid across the bathroom counter with the vibration of an incoming text from a friend.

"Weren't you just in Glenview?"

Yes, as a matter of fact, I was, but I could not for the life of me figure out why that was newsworthy. Especially for this friend, who had actually just been with me in Glenview, so it's not as if there was some heavy duty sleuthing involved. I felt a bit huffy. The rude interruption was hardly worth releasing the tight pull on my cheeks and watching, with despair, as the dull, inelastic skin returned to its prune-like state.

In response, a curt "yes" seemed appropriate, but good friends are hard to come by so I opted against curtness and chose instead to become fully engaged in the conversation, wrinkled cheeks be damned. Friendship first. "Why the fuck are you asking me that, idiot?" was what I said, on the theory that negative attention is better than no attention at all. And I just couldn't muster up the kindness to respond cheerfully to a stupid question which had interfered with my nightly facial exercises. I went back to my routine as I awaited a response. A few broad smiles to tone the cheek muscles, a few slow chin stretches to exorcise the turkey who had taken up residence in my neck.

"There was just a cougar siting in Glenview. I heard it on the news."

Hilarious. The skin on my face is as rugged as the landscape in a Marlboro cigarette ad and I'm supposed to have a sense of humor about being mistaken for a cougar? The men in the cradles I might rob are more likely to wear Depends than Pampers; without their glasses (and, thankfully, nobody wears glasses to bed) they have no way of knowing what I look like naked. All good. A forty-something year old babe is cougar material; a woman who carries an AARP card and actually might start to sprout some whiskers loses some of that edge.

So, like your average mall shopper, when it comes to younger men, I am "just looking." Hey, I'm wrinkled, not dead. Which is fine with me, because I don't have to say things like "shut up and look pretty." I must admit I had a bit of a senior moment (of the dirty old woman variety) when I sat down to watch the Olympics yesterday. I swear I didn't plan it this way, but the upcoming event was men's beach volleyball. Visions of the male counterparts of skimpy-bikini-clad buff athletes on the women's side danced in my addled brain. Speedos might have made me spit up my Geritol, but the prospect of some glistening bare pectoral muscles grabbed my attention. Much to my dismay, though, the young studs wore shirts (and, happily, long shorts). I suppose they are just not as comfortable as women are leaping around in sand in front of millions of viewers, constantly tugging small swatches of material out of their butts. Hmm.

I have no doubt there were more than a few cougars sited in Glenview the other night, some in restaurants and bars, maybe one or two skulking in the shadows on the streets. But the one that made the news -- it definitely was not me. I had already headed for home, my AARP card in my purse and sensible shoes on my feet, to contemplate the deepening grooves on my face, feline charm nowhere in sight.