The Weight of the World

I know many of us cougars frequent the gym, or frequently think about frequenting the gym.  It’s like that last kick at the can.  The sentiment:  Better try and maintain what I’ve got for as long as I can because soon no amount of sweat and tears is going to contain my sagging skin.

Yep, the gym.  Mostly it’s a sacred space where we can feel okay about ourselves.  Those days where a hint of a hard body is reflected back at us are good days.  The burn felt after a particularly rigorous workout is welcome and rejuvenating.  I can even convince myself that men are looking at me, perhaps even, dare I say it, fantasizing?

This is all good.  I get in the zone.  I’m in my glory.  I am a cub to be reckoned with, primed for the hunt.  Then IT happens.

I’m pumping my arms, feeling the power, when I hear a sound.  Not the testosterone driven, hey I’m lifting 20lbs more than I should but I’m an awesome dude kind of grunting.  A more subtle, gentler kind of sound.  A meow really.

I look up mid-lift and see her.  Pearl earrings, pony tail – no hint of grey, tight white top, tight black stretch pants, firm ass, seemingly hairless, smooth, tight body.  She’s doing some barbell super-lift that I’ve never imagined doing before.  It looks like it should be crazy awkward but she’s pulling it off with seamless reps, endearing vocals, and the avid attention of the male trainer who, up until this very moment, I used to consider a friend.

Before I’m even through my lift I feel 52 instead of 42.  I’m stripped of my reality gym bubble, the one in which I am visible and desirable.  I instantly perceive all the men in the room as traitors, fair-weather friends if you will.  I’m consumed by the notion that if I was to stand next to firm-ass all my hard exercising over the past couple of years would amount to exactly…nothing.

I finish my rep, glance in the mirror and resolve that I will not go quietly.  I will rally.  A hair cut is in order.  Yes, I reassure myself, that’s all that’s separating me from her – a decent coif.  I decide that I’d better take care of it tomorrow.  This unfortunately means skipping the gym during my lunch break, but keeping the whole body together takes time and the focus needs to be distributed amongst all the different parts.

So men, on the off chance you do happen to take note of me making my rounds at the bar, mall, grocery store, wherever, all this doesn’t come easy.  I suppose I should be thanking firm-ass for keeping me motivated. For pushing me to challenge invisibility, keep fit and hang on to fading youth.

You see men, it’s her that actually drives me, not dudes.  Not you fickle ones at the gym anyway.

Joyce Vedral's Cougar Workout


The Age of Discontent

Men, consider yourself cautioned about reading the information contained in the next sentence…….

It ain’t all about you.  I know, it’s hard to perceive that us mature ladies desire nothing above a good shagging from a big boy.  And I’ll admit there are times when it’s good medicine.  Other times, many other times, it’s not at the top of the list.  Sorry, boys.  I know you know we want it.  Except when we don’t.

What we really want you see, is to find and follow a passion.  We want contentment. We want fulfillment.  Problem is how to find it.  How to find the time to find it.  Once found, how to find the resources to fund it.  Maybe that’s where the man comes in?

Gotcha fellas.  Just joking.  Seriously.  We actually want to make it on our own.  I think.  I hope I’m speaking for the majority of women.  I can imagine nothing more satisfying than having a dream and working my ass off to realize it.  The architect of my own success.

Here’s the problem.  I’m in my 40’s, still not crystal clear on my passion, busy, busy, busy maintaining a job, two kids, a boyfriend. a home and a dog.  I can hardly plan for dinner let alone determine my passion and what steps to take toward it.  Scrubbing the toilet on the weekend I was pretty sure toilet scrubbing could be crossed off my passion list.  Truth is I know a lot of things I don’t want to do.  Like the job I’m currently doing for example.  It’s not my passion by a long shot.  So why the hell am I doing it?

For starters I fall into the mindset that it’s too late to become a defector.  I had my chance when I was young.  Missed that boat.  Now it’s all about scheduling and getting things done.  I’m a responsible woman after all.  What would become of my desirable lifestyle of selling my soul to make my money to spend on soulless stuff if I dumped everything to fulfill a passion?  And my RRSP ain’t printing it’s own money.

Cougar life is tough.  We may look all hot and desirable but guys, we have problems just like the rest of you.  I could sure use a distraction.  Care for a shag?