Cougars on the prowl

I've got a cute doctor. He's much older and very good looking. I see him every now and again, and we have pleasant conversations and talk about medical things. But in the back of my mind, I wonder, is he flirting with me just the tiniest bit?

I have another cute doctor. He's much younger and very good looking. I see him every now and again, and we have pleasant conversations and talk about medical things. But in the back of my mind, I wonder, is he flirting with me just the tiniest bit?

When you read my story the second time, do you think differently about me when you now know my cute doctor is much younger than I? Does that make me a Cougar? And at what age does that term come into play? Actually, where did that term even come from?

I looked it up on Urban Dictionary. I found the most highly rated definition was hilarious and probably right on the money:

"An older woman who frequents clubs in order to score with a much younger man...can be anyone from an overly surgically altered wind tunnel victim, to an absolute sad and bloated old horn-meister, to a real hottie or milf. Cougars are gaining in popularity -- particularly the true hotties -- as young men find not only a sexual high, but many times a chick with her shit together."

I wondered, could I possibly be old enough to be considered a Cougar? To me a Cougar is at least in her forties, I convince myself. Then I realize I'm just about there. No, no. I'm still too young. A Cougar must be in her mid to late forties, right? Now I have to look up the answer:

“An attractive woman in her 30's or 40's who is on the hunt once again. She will not play the usual B.S. games that women in their early twenties participate in.”
I have to laugh. Online, you can find tons of websites devoted to hooking up with a Cougar and a Cougar communities for women over 40. Cougars seem to be a pretty hot topic lately. There’s even a TV reality show about a Cougar and a viral video about Cougar Barbie.

So I wonder, when my friends and I check out the cute college boy at the hotel pool, does that make us Cougars? Is it the same thing to look and think, but not act? Or does the woman actually have to pounce and devour her prey to earn the title? I hope so. Then again, I have several Cougars I’m quite close to. So I’m, really not judging, are you?

Lucky me

I’m not easily fooled. I read between the lines and know what you’re hiding. I can read your facial expressions and know what you’re not telling me. You can’t bullshit a bullshitter. But apparently, you can pull a surprise party over on me!

Surprise parties are the best kind of parties. There’s no involvement on the recipient’s end. Everything is handled for you. You get to show up and just enjoy. You get the honor of being celebrated. You get to bask in the love of your friends. You get to dance around like a wild woman and not worry about being judged. You get to sit at the head of the table and make toasts. You’re allowed to get mushy and tell your friends how much you love them twenty times. You get to blow out the birthday candles (Unless your cake has sparklers, thank you very much!). You get to eat a beautiful cake. (Unless someone drops it and then there's a second beautiful cake!) You get to open wonderful surprises in beautifully wrapped bags. It’s a wonderful thing.

The beauty of a party in your honor is while your friends are celebrating you, you can celebrate your friends. There’s no better feeling than in knowing how much time, energy, thought, effort, and love was all put forth for you. I’m so very lucky for my dear, wonderful friends who took the time from their very busy lives to make me feel so incredibly special. I’m so very lucky for my dear, wonderful husband who has redeemed himself from spilling the beans at my 30th birthday surprise twenty feet away from the door. I’m just so very lucky for you, and you know who you are. Thank you.

Hip hop and tics-a-lot

Do you have a personal tic that you subconsciously know you have but never realized others were aware of it? Damn, it’s embarrassing when you finally learn that you don’t do such a good job of covering it up. Or worse, is when you learn that you do it more often than you thought and your girlfriends all see it but never mention it to you. (until it’s time to laugh at you!)

I used to wear glasses on occasion. I should have worn them more often than I did, but I was vein. I didn’t like how they looked nor did I like when they slid down my nose. But more importantly, I didn’t like how they looked. Instead, I wore contacts. However, the contacts constantly dried out my eyeballs. I used to blink often, or stare straight ahead in an effort to fix them. I knew I did it. I just didn’t realize how often I stared bug-eyed at my friends or fluttered my eyes until I was called out on it, while they laughed mercilessly.

Yeah, yeah. I can laugh at myself with the rest of you. But a month later, I gave into Lasik surgery. Of course, now I have the last laugh with my better than 98% of the world 20/15 vision…but anyway, I digress…

So last night, I took a hip-hop class with my girlfriends. I absolutely loved it. It was just as I imagined it would be. The instructor was young, flexible, and amazing. I however, am not. I looked more like a fleshy robot and I didn’t even care. We laughed a lot, both at ourselves and at each other, and I can’t wait to go back (albeit alone!) to the next class.

On the ride home, I was asked why I wanted to learn hip-hop. It’s not like I’m going to bust a hip-hop move on a table at the Greek restaurant, right? No, I explained that I want to learn how to be fluid in my movements. Because there’s nothing fluid about me, except maybe my frequent need to pee. Hip-hop is beautiful dancing to me—plus it’s such fun, not to mention a great workout.

Ironically, the instructor was also Maya’s hip-hop teacher. Furthermore, we’re learning the same routine. So now, I’ll be not only humiliated next to the other women in the class, but I can be shown up by my seven year old. Now I understand why Maya has two left feet. She gets it from me. And we’re left-handed which makes learning the moves all the more confusing and backwards for us.

At lunch today, I shared my experience with some girlfriends. One asked to see the routine and I willingly obliged. The other, who has danced on many tables beside me, laughed about how I always hang my tongue out in some fashion when I dance. It’s a part of my “look”. Ha ha, we laughed, but inside I cringed because you know what? Damn it, she’s right! I guess I was subconsciously aware that I do some weird thing with my mouth—twist my lips and who-knows-what with my tongue. I’m sort of mortified. I think I just make lots of funny faces in case anyone is watching me dance. This way if they think I look hilarious, they’ll also think apparently I think I’m hilarious too. Maybe I do it to distract anyone from actually looking at my body while I dance. Either way, it’s just another tic in a long list of mine that I possess.

Oh, and did I mention I also seem to snap my fingers while dancing too? Maverick shared that nugget not too long ago, while I was dancing around the house. Now you may get the picture why I’m looking for some help.

Hip-hop-laugh-a-lot

Since I was a little girl, I’ve loved to dance. The house I grew up in had a giant, furnished basement. As a kid, I’d lock myself downstairs, turn the Bee Gees up on the turntable and dance the day away. Sometimes, I’d bring a large mirror down there to watch myself. I’d use an open door to swing myself around on like it was my dance partner. Once, my mother stored a highly polished wood dining room table down there and that became the perfect surface to practice spinouts on my tush like a Dance Fever girl. I’d throw myself down and spin out with an arm raised in the air with the a flourish, ta-da!

I’d sing and dance and put on a show for nobody in particular. But in my fantasy, I was always a very famous, very glamorous, very rich, popular and gorgeous Hollywood starlette who made the crossover from successful films to Broadway to Billboard’s Top 20 Hits. Not to mention my movie-star boyfriend, Tom Cruise!

That’s when I was my happiest. Dancing around like I knew what I was doing, first to Andy Gibb and then Saturday Night Fever and later to Grease, Fame and then Flashdance. Dancing around in the privacy of my own basement (with a very large, appreciative audience in my own mind) always put a smile on my face. I clearly remember feeling flushed and out of breath, as I took a large bow and accepted my standing ovation. It was my way of escaping out of reality and into my perfect fantasy of actually having a gifted dancing ability.

Truth be told, I really can’t dance. I can move my hips and pull off a convincing dance in a crowd. That’s when I’m at my best now. I’m the girl who can shimmy in a chair and look good doing it. But getting up and dancing doesn’t translate as well on my own two feet. I do it anyhow because after all these years, it still feels amazing. Put a few drinks in me, and I’ll tear up a dance floor. Who cares how I look to others if I can’t see straight? Even today, I still dance around the house when no one is looking. I dance with my girls and luckily, they don’t know any better than to laugh at me.

One of my favorite dance shows is “So You Think You Can Dance?” After watching the first season, I got hung up on wanting to learn how to hip hop. Maverick laughed. I’m so klutzy and uncoordinated. How could I learn to do hip-hop well? I showed him my hip-hop moves. He laughed again. So did I. But deep down inside, I really meant it. I WANT TO LEARN HOW TO HIP-HOP. It’s all about exaggerated moves and popping. I think I could do that. Maybe…

So finally, I found an adult hip-hop class. I refuse to get down on the floor and do the “corkscrew” or the “worm-whatever” but I am very excited to learn how to bust a move. Hopefully, I won’t bust a bone. My girlfriends are going with me. I don’t know what that’s going to be like but I can guarantee it will be worth it’s weight in laughter. Maybe I should down a few shots of tequila before I go.