I was in the Marina last night.
Don’t hate me.
I parked at Kate and Jenny’s apartment and because I was early, walked down to Chestnut Street to shop and get a pedicure. And instantly, I was like, “Oh my god. Cougars everywhere. The stereotype lives.”
It’s almost like watching Planet Earth. At 5:30, the cougars emerge from their flats, blond hair pony-tailed and sporting designer workout separates and invisible socks. None of them talk to each other. Christ, they don’t even make eye contact. They stare straight ahead with the same determination they exhibit in City Tavern.
I sat in a spa chair in between two of them, as they got French pedicures and I got slutty blood red toes. There was a mirror facing us, so I could study them in their natural environment without staring too obviously. I felt giant and poorly dressed, like some freak who’d wandered into the wrong herd.
No one spoke to anyone and most cougars spent the entire time on their cell phones. The woman to my left tried to speak to the Asian manicurists in Spanish and when I casually pointed out to the woman on my right that we were wearing the same ring, she looked so simultaneously terrified and confused, I actually apologized.
I don’t know why, but cougars scare me. These kittens have claws, folks. French manicured claws. Their leader is Swiss Miss but they all secretly aspire to Vanessa “I drown puppies” Getty. Why date power when you can marry money?
When my pedicure finished, I quickly escaped to the relative security of Circa, where at least I knew people. But needless to say, as the hours passed and we drank through our dinner, the sun set and the cougars reemerged. If you were a sporting an un-tucked dress shirt and a penis, they most likely attacked…