It’s that time of year, cougars. That time where we have to keep our heads up, our eyes averted and our heels high. It’s Spring, and we’ve been having a pretty delightful one up here in Toronto. Delightful weather-wise, which means not so delightful self-esteem wise.
The ladies are coming out, and I don’t mean the females, I mean the ladies: the pair, the set, the melons, the rack. Yes, those perky, young, luscious boobs that start their slow crawl out of hibernation by way of gradually plunging neck lines as the mounds jiggle and cleavage their way into the minds and hearts of the male species.
And who am I kidding, we women notice too. I’m amongst the gawker crowd. I can’t help myself. Then I hate myself. Then I hate the young woman with the perky set. Then I hate the dude that I see out of the corner of my eye having the audacity to stare at said woman’s perky set. Pig! Then I turn back to the young woman and try to figure out… I don’t even know. I lose my train of thought because the boobs strike me dumb. There’s a hypnotic quality to the sheer volume of flesh. I can’t help but reflect on my own lady lumps and I arrive at the same, bummer of a conclusion that no one really wants to see them lifted and spilling because they would be lacking and appear desperate beside a younger set.
However all is not lost. We cougars have our confidence, our experience and our paycheques to keep us in the game. Okay, we don’t wear all this awesome stuff superficially on our chests (with the exception of the big paycheque crowd that may put their money where their chest is), but we’ve got it and we’ve got a safe place to use it – the bars that the perky tits aren’t old enough to get into.
Take that, you voluptuous, insecure 18 year-old that everyone is staring at who knows nothing of the world or men. You’ve got no place wa….. shit. What was I saying?