Welcome To Cougar Town

“Wawama wama wa wamawa” she mouthed. 

I took out Linkin Park from my earphones.  “I’m sorry, what was that?”

“I said, that was one heck of a run.” The mid-life crisis in neon pink spandex said to me.   

“Oh, yeah.  That’s what I’m here for.”

“You do a lot of triathlons then?” She smiled at me.  I looked down at the 4-carat wedding ring stapled to her fake-baked finger. 

“I uh…”

“I read the back of your shirt.  My, you’re probably in great shape.” She said, picking up a matching neon pink towel used only for fashion purposes. 

“Yep.” Plugging back in Linkin Park I shunned the cougar and went back to my regularly scheduled workout routine.

40-year old Cougars are on the lookout everywhere out there, and they’re on a mission to pounce on us single gents if we’re not keeping the eyes in the back of our heads peeled. 

I would say for full comedic effect, download an episode of “Cougar Town” and watch at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.  But then again, you shouldn’t be put through something as awful as that sitcom.  I don’t care if Abed L-words it, “Cougar Town” is a disgrace. 

Wrinkled women are on the prowl, searching for any type of fully flexed meat they can find that’s half their age.  The above-mentioned scenario is not a hypothetical conversation that I think might happen between a Cougar and a young chap; that conversation in fact DID happen ten days ago, as I was finishing up a run at Gold’s Gym.  It’s because of that conversation that I abandoned the treadmill and graduated to the 160-meter track circling on the second floor above me. 

But the thing is, Cougars aren’t just on treadmills.  Cougars are EVERYWHERE!

Take my run that happened three days ago for instance.  In the midst of a rather lengthy, rather enduring 110 laps around, there appeared four matching 40-year olds who seated themselves on the inner left side, and began a 45-minute stretching session while staking out the prey running ovals around them.  There they sat for almost an hour.  Stretching muscles that don’t even exist on their bodies, just so they could flap their extended eyelashes and bend over with their posteriors facing outward on cue and hope that some dim-witted meathead born in the 80’s would take out his earphones and play a little game of flirting tag with them.  That’s how pathetic these Cougars are.

What is wrong with these women?  Are they in the middle of some kind of mid-life mood swing waking up next to fat comb-overs who wear black socks and brown sandals to bed, which makes them think they can go attract the latest piece of beef jerky walking around Gold’s Gym in a tank top who is old enough to have their grandkids?  Are they psychologically depressed because they feel the side effects of a poor marriage weighing on them to the point that they are justified into having a subconscious affair?  Are they escaped convicts from some mental institution that only houses middle-aged ladies?

You’ve got me.  All I know is that there are fake-baked, wrinkled women with wedding rings in their forties who are on the prowl, thrashing at the bit, out to get what they can’t have; a man half their age.