I guess you can say I’m in the throes of a major midlife crisis.As Dolly Parton once famously quipped, “It takes a lot of money to look this cheap.” Because of all of this, I’m constantly called the “c-word” — that “c-word” being “cougar.” I do really hate that word.
In their twenties men want to have as much sex with as many different women as possible. Of course in their forties and fifties all of that hard work will be undone in a blazing crisis of self that returns them squarely to stage one, armed this time with enough Viagra to pre-empt their premature excitement.
Not that it was very different from the responses I got from men my age — they were just far less eager and often downright aloof.
One guy I dated on and off I dubbed “Copperfield” (as in magician David Copperfield), as he'd disappear for weeks at a time between dates.
I'm 33, Megan is 37, and the majority of the guests who were not relatives of the bride or groom fell somewhere squarely in between. Uncle Jack was away somewhere in France, but the mother of the groom put the kibosh on the whole thing.
Recently recovering from a relationship with a 65-year-old celebrity plastic surgeon in Los Angeles, Megan arrived to the wedding weekend licking her wounds, only to immediately be courted by the 72-year old uncle of the groom."They can smell me a mile away," she told me after she chatted with him about restaurants, real estate, his children, and his grandchildren, while the rest of us kids enjoyed a game of floating beer pong in the pool. "I don't want you to get hurt, dear," she whispered with reserved aplomb.