Yesterday evening:

P called to say, “Get your fine self over here…and wear something short.”

I hesitated in responding because it was unlike the all-class P to speak so brazenly. I responded, “You need to ask me to wear something short?” I thought, ‘Did we just meet? Remember me, the one who wears t-shirts as dresses!’

“Yeah, the boys want to make bets on how short your skirt is going to be this time.” Oh snap! The chips are on the table! Come to think of it, this should be handled as a Price Is Right bid.

“And the actual skirt length is…four inches! P, you’re the winner with one inch! Everybody else overbid! Come on up!” *dee doo dooooo dee doo dooooo* (Seriously, that Price Is Right jingle is still catchy after forty years!)

No lie, I met the boys at G’s place and a girl showed up in a t-shirt that I bought and wore as a dress last week. Killer.

Anyway, we enjoyed the usual gong show at Sandbar a.k.a. Cougarville. If you’re wondering how “cougar-ish” a place is, there’s only one test you need to run and it’s called “Spot the Leopard”. If there are more than four ladies in leopard print, you’ve just landed on the motherload.

I imagine they represent the future me if I fail to get married in the next ten years. Dressed in tacky, cleavage-baring outfits, eyeing fresh meat as if eating it would give them back their youth and beauty, making attacks with a hungry desperation.

On the other end, I could be one of my unhappily married friends. Convinced they’re “stuck” in a relationship, too cowardly to initiate change, resolved in finding temporary thrills, unaware of their internalized self-loathing.

Between the two, I’d rather be hunting than trapped.

If and when my single forties come, leopard tights I will don proudly and young men I will many hump.