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Age is an issue of mind over matter. If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter. ~ Mark Twain
With my birthday looming imminently, I can’t help but muse about the novelty of aging. In the absence of children, particularly teenagers, I have managed to stay somewhat insulated in a Peter Pan syndrome of perpetual youth. I have a hypothesis that teenagers exist to make you feel old, antiquated, un-cool, rusty, musty and disposable. It is their job. Many teenagers have an innate instinct for where to unravel the esteem of their elders. It’s all in the sneer. Fortunately, being a quirky, eccentric lesbian seems to garner ‘cool’ points from teens, thereby providing limited immunity to being relegated to the out-of-touch, crusty, old codger category.
I see my cousins growing up and having kids. The oldest one is 10 years younger than me. That influence is limited to a couple of days per year. It is easy to dismiss as peripheral to my evolution. I see my friend’s kids graduating from high school, going to college, getting married, having kids and I think “wow, I could be a grandmother by now.” It is a curious concept to contemplate for a moment, but it doesn’t linger. I may be old enough to be a grandparent, but I have been improperly indoctrinated and/or socialized for that role. I’m single. I don’t have kids. I don’t feel old.
The mirror suggests that my perception of youthfulness is largely delusional. Unwelcome gray hairs are emerging with more regularity. Extraneous black hairs appear in random, unexpected places. My most common facial expressions are being etched on my face in the form of creases that promise to wrinkle like a sun dried raisin over the next 40 years. Based on the emerging emotional road map on my face, I have done a lot of scowling, squinting and laughing so far. The scars, wrinkles and gray strands are a testament to having survived this long. I don’t mind a bit.
I had a Twitter conversation a few weeks ago with @gracethespot about whether she was a ‘cougar,’ because some youthful ‘hottie’ caught her eye. While she was contemplating whether different members of the feline species would be more apt, I gestated the concept of someone a decade younger than me being concerned about age. Is that a cue that I should be paying attention to this linear time thing?
I don’t remember her exact age, but it was close enough to 30 to make me think ‘you are still a house cat.’ Everyone of legal age is fair game if you are anywhere within striking distance of 30. There is no need to feel salacious or to assume a feline alter ego.
Men have been pursuing younger lovers in perpetuity. No one thinks anything of it. Over the last couple of decades, more women have tossed aside the stigma associated with dating people far younger than themselves. From Mrs. Robinson in The Graduate to Samantha in Sex in the City, women have become increasingly comfortable with expressing desire for younger partners. More women are refusing to allow age to define their sensuality, opportunities or options. Mae West and Eartha Kitt created the mold decades ago. Madonna defines the modern alpha cougar. Ellen established the pop-culture precedent for lesbian cougars.
Being imbued with excessive curiosity and an abundance of time, I perused online allusions to ‘cougars,’ carefully avoiding the abundance of porn. Most of the online references focus on older women stalking younger men. Perhaps that is why Grace wanted to utilize a different feline, i.e. Ocelot or Lynx. I prefer Cougar. She has a few years to contemplate the options, because the consensus on the minimum age requirement is 35.
The urban dictionary had a short, succinct and unilateral definition: “a woman who is 35+, sexually cunning, that prefers to hunt rather than be hunted.” Based on that description, I am a cougar. Hear me roar?! However, that definition makes no mention of preference for younger prey. Most references to ‘cougars’ focus on the age difference in romance and relationships.
I have aged. the average age at most gay bars is about the same as it has always been. That was no big deal at 30…or even 35. These days I am increasingly aware of the women at the clubs who are young enough to be my child. That has ZERO carnal appeal. I suppose that strips me of my ‘cougar’ status. The bars are not a suitable stomping ground anymore. I don’t have the money, the inclination or the aspiration to be a bar-troll.
I’ve been there, done that and I have no regrets. If someone catches your eye, you may never have another opportunity like that again…go for it. As long as it is legal and consensual, I say that age should be left to the discretion of the participants.
I am currently on hiatus from participatory lesbianism, preferring a more leisurely, low key theoretical approach. For the moment I am content to live vicariously through friends. I have noticed that many of my single friends over 30 are keen to find a stable relationship. The quest for a mate is somewhere between idle hobby and obsession. It is certainly part of the agenda more often than not.
The myth regarding women over 30 having a difficult time finding a mate is rampant. I am not sure if there is truly a compelling need for heterosexual women over 30 to urgently hook-up, but I am absolutely convinced that lesbians can afford a more leisurely pace. There is no lesbian expiry date. If that myth is actually true for heterosexual women, then several bisexual women, who are currently married, dating or single, may eventually reconsider the madness and drama of lesbians. That would certainly make my 40s, 50s and 60s more entertaining…Ms. Kitty might have to leave the house and prowl.
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