Liz Fenton: I had always thought that the whole cougar thing was a myth. But then something happened: I turned 35.
Faster than you can say "Susan Sarandon," younger men started looking good again. I wondered if it could've been the fact that I bought a minivan the same week I blew out an extraordinary amount of birthday candles on my cake, because instead of ignoring my daughter's (cute, young) swim coach like I've always done before, I found myself sharing knowing looks with the other moms while burning my ass on the bleachers during practice each day.
But I was still too young to go all Mrs. Robinson, right?
So imagine my shock when I discovered that the official cougar age is (gulp!) 35. No longer could I pretend that these women were 50-something maneaters hanging out in upscale bars drinking martinis. And OK, maybe I had ignored some of the signs (there were only two gray hairs in my eyebrows that day, I SWEAR) that I had matured to cougar age. (Cue premenopausal shopping spree and desperate trip to dermatologist for Retin-A prescription.)
And I decided that dammit, if my type-A self was going to become a cliche, then I was going to do it right!
Flirting shamelessly with the overly pierced food runner at Cheesecake Factory? That extra bread he put in my bag never tasted so good!
Signing my 5-year-old up for water polo and insisting on taking her to EVERY class? What can I say? Physical fitness is very important for children (wink, wink).
P.S. Did I mention that my husband is NOT amused? It's OK -- I'll be sure to give him a pass when his midlife crisis kicks in a few years from now.