Ladies of the Feline Persuation

I'm not much of a partier.

Don't get me wrong, I like to go out with my girls and cut the occasional rug. I can even hold my own with the liquor when the time's right (if, by "hold my own with the liquor" I mean "have two drinks before I'm intoxicated enough to forget what tomorrow's going to feel like", then I can most definitely, unquestionably, "hold my own with the liquor").

Anyway, it had been quite some time since I had cut a rug, or any other form of floor covering for that matter, so this past weekend I opted to accompany Loren back home to Barrie for a much needed, well-deserved nocturnal adventure.

While we were getting ready, the girls began chatting about clubs, bars and boys. Or the lack thereof in our respective age group.

Here's the thing: we have now attained a new rank. We have moved up a box on the census age bracket. We are all, for the most part, hanging out in that grey area that is 26-30.

And while our friends are settling down, getting hitched and contemplating the finer details of procreation, we are, well, not. But that doesn't mean we wouldn't like a member of the opposite sex to peak our interest from time to time. It would be an added bonus, and so much more acceptable, if those guys had, say, graduated high school. Even better? Had a degree, diploma or work experience to add to the resume.

This of course lead to the inevitable question, the inescapable query: given our recent descent on what can only be described as the slippery slope toward 30, are we, or are we not, potential cougars?

Come on ladies, from the moment you first walked into the club and realized that that guy you were chatting up at the bar was, in actuality, your grade 6 reading buddy, you've been asking yourself the exact same question.

So when, exactly, does one become a cougar?

Well this particular group of friends are true philosophers and so, on this fateful night, I was introduced to yet another important theory. While we may not have solved the age-old cougar riddle, I was informed that we, without a shadow of a doubt, are NOT cougars.

We are pumas.

That's right, pumas.

Although the exact reasoning of this distinction has been lost in a fog of Tom Collins', white wine and deliciously girly martinis, it stands to reason that, while we may be older than some of the guys out at the club, we are no where near old enough to be their mothers.

Which I suppose would qualify as a definition of a cougar...

Two birds, one stone.

This coming from the ladies who decided long ago that every woman must have a "dick match" somewhere in the world, and that she should neither give up nor give in before she finds it.

Solving the world's most pressing issues, one case at a time.