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You ever hear that statistic about how the more educated you are,
the less likely you’ll want to marry? Or how the divorce rate increases
with each marriage? What does that tell you? Maybe that us seasoned
gals got more interesting things to do than fuss and fret over what he
meant by that comment, or what he was really doing that
weekend. We’re busy doing exactly what we want to do and not
necessarily because there’s some grand sense of purpose and destiny
behind it. Maybe it’s just fun and feels good.
And that frankly is all it takes to be a cougar. The ability to say,
“Screw that, I’m doing it my way.” Or put another way, “I’m going to
follow my heart—at last.”
Whatever you call it, I’d be less than perfectly seasoned in my
advice if I didn’t forewarn you. The simple knack of following your
heart is virtually guaranteed to take you off the usual life paths. And
sometimes you’ll have to put up with stupid shit like people labeling
you a “cougar” just because your boyfriend’s a tad younger than you.
My attitude about the whole cougar thing is to try not to get too
hung on it the word itself—to get down to the gestalt (so to speak) of
the label. At which point, it dawns on me that being a cougar is
really about freedom spiced, perhaps, with a dash of rebellion.
Now doesn’t that sound fun—far more so than trying to follow a bunch
of antiquated rules in your head? Rules like, marry a guy with an
actual profession or at least some bank. Have two kids and raise them
to be geniuses, while launching a non-profit organization to save the
world from poverty and/or global warming. Be super nice but never a
push over. Throw neighborhood parties where even pets are invited. Get
tipsy on an excellent Chardonnay but not hammered or, perish the
thought, sloppily drunk. Be happy with sex once a year, and for god’s
sake, keep your depression to yourself.
Good grief, why waste the second half of your life chasing someone
else’s idea of the good life? I have girlfriends in their forties who
still think they’ll be sucked into a black hole of loneliness and
destruction if they’re not married by the time they hit fifty. Even I
used to think that, even though statistics show that Americans are less
likely to marry than ever before. Let’s stop being so darn responsible
and conformist, and start having some fun on our terms—even if it means
being called a cougar. Marriage has become a barometer of well,
nothing, and I’ve certainly been called worse.