Well, it’s happened.  I have turned forty.  I mean, all the signs were there.  I’d been thirty-nine for a year, I was born forty years ago.  You know, the usual signs.

Anyway.  They tell me that when you hit forty you become a “cougar”.  According to Urban Dictionary, this following is one of many definitions of the so-called Cougar.

Hot and sexy older woman, usually in her 40s or 50s, single or married, who is sick of her same-age counterparts which are usually hairless, have big guts, who only talk about their insurance premiums and have the TV remote control attached to their hands. Cougars are attractive, in their sexual prime, who know what they want and aren’t afraid to go after it. BIG misconception is that they dress cheap, wear hot pink nail polish, animal skin prints and are not-so-attractive old-looking hags with bleached hair (Yeah those women exist, but they are NOT cougars). True cougars are classy, beautiful creatures who have made their successes on their own, have real brains, usually with expensive cars/homes, and are real head turners. Cougars seek younger men, and don’t have to sneak up and attack…they know their younger mates are eager to get an experienced woman who won’t ask if they’ll call them the next day. Being a cougar is a positive thing.
20-something girl: “oh no, that cougar just left with Jeff and I’ve been trying to get him to ask me out for the past three months”.

Being a cougar is a positive thing. Is it? Seems to me that cougars have an image to maintain meaning they have to be looking stunning almost twenty-four hours a day.  That puts an end to me cutting about in fleece joggers with my last three meals evident on them.

I’ll have to lie with teabags on my eyes for a week to get rid of the bags underneath them, then I’ll realise the teabags were meant to have been used first.

Cougars seek younger men. Do they…we? I don’t know.  I mean, when I waken up in the morning my mind is usually on a cup of tea and a Jaffa Cake.  Then I have to sit for about half an hour while my face rearranges itself from the blob it became lying in my bed.  After that I’ll look in the mirror and then go ‘oh Jesus’ and jump back.  A mirror, which, by the way, is above my fire.  Apparently a lot of people put TV’s above their fires now.  Well, that’s just silly.  Who does that? And where do they put their mirror? Plus, after a few months of putting the fire on the TV will melt and fall off the wall*.  Just saying.

So, do we, us cougars, seek the younger men? Not a bloody clue. Not a clue.  My average night is; get home, check TIVO has recorded Fifteen to One, put anything that needs to go into the fridge, into the fridge (because the law says you have to go to the shop and buy things you don’t need on the way home).  Pad into the bedroom and spend ten minutes deciding if it’s too early for pyjamas or should I go with joggers.  After that spend an hour in the kitchen deciding what to have for tea before heading up to the local Tesco to buy a ready meal.  Home.  Cook ready meal in oven (don’t have a microwave – no use for it, don’t know what they’re useful for), eat it while watching Eastenders or something.  Then put the dirty dishes in the kitchen and close the door – the dish washing fairies will surely deal with that! Then visit the bedroom to get the double bed ready for single me.

That’s the thing, isn’t it.  Got a single bed and you bring a lad back it’s exciting.  Oooh two people in a single.  Fun! A double bed and your nan is asking you if you really need it.  The cheek!

Well, about the time I’m folding down my duvet and plumping pillows is about the time the cougar is supposed to be heading up town.  Or down town.  Depends where you live I suppose.  If it’s a basement flat it’s up but if you live in a tower block it would be down.

The cougar has to go to a pub or a club about that time of night.  Well, that time of night is when I go into the bathroom and check out the face in the mirror.  Give it a wash and put on the Avon Radiance Overnight Cream.  It’s supposed to be brightening and is for dull and tired skin.  I’d need to stick my head in a vat of it for six months to achieve any of that.  However, for the first few moments of putting it on, it tightens the skin and I feel happy.

Now, before I put the cream on it’s time to check for hairs.  Now, men, and younger women, something happens when a lady gets old.  It’s hair.  It’s not just on the legs and under the arms and in the fanny area.  It’s just wherever it wants to be.  That beautiful mole that used to be your beauty spot.  Not now.  A big, thick, black hair will start growing out of it.  Bradley Wiggins would be jealous of the sideburns that will develop.  Eyebrows rush to meet each other.

It’s the chin though.  And it’s not alone.  The chin and the neck.  I mean, we laugh at men for their hairy noses and ears when they get older but, we forget our chins.  Don’t keep up with it and it’s like a lawn need mowed.  Where the hell did all that come from? One day your at the mirror admiring your soft, smooth, hairless skin, the next you’re shouting for an emergency set of tweezers.

You can Nair it until the cows come home but, it’s always going to be there.  You’ll be feeling your chin three days after melting your chin with chemicals and there it will be.  The hair that’s appeared that’s about an inch long.  Where did that come from?

Painting an attractive picture there. Maybe cougaring just isn’t for me. Mind you, try everything once.

*this may not actually happen