Dating, cougar-style

Let’s talk about dating and “cougars”—also known as women over fifty.

No matter what side of the golden-birthday suit you wear, doesn’t the mere sound of that subject make you wince?

In my circle, no matter how Zen we are about turning forty, the big Five-Oh is a whole ‘nother story. Fifty prompts a reaction that sounds a bit like a big cat hocking up a hairball. Hah-yack! It’s a tough dating market out there, especially for women who have to restart a long-dormant dating career due to divorce or other sudden bout of singledom. Men’s dating stock seems to increase in value with age, but we women often find ourselves stuck in a bear market. Or a depression.

During my recent college reunion, dating was a hot topic. During one of our late-night chatfests in the common room (a tribal ritual that involved the imbibing of copious amounts of spirit juice), a recent divorcee posed the following question: “How do I start the whole dating thing again?”

I leaned forward and offered up a tip from Mimi Morgan, a character in The Fat City Mysteries.

“Here’s a dirty little secret about men,” I said. “Men are all about packaging. You gotta take what you got and vamp it up.”

My theory was rejected by a unanimous round of head-shaking. This amazed me. Call me a plastic surgery junkie, call me a shallow-head resident of La-La Land, but I thought all women knew this basic fact about the male species—men's initial reaction to a woman is based on appearance. After that comes love and feelings (hopefully), but here’s the ugly truth: Looks. Do. Matter.

Here’s how one of my characters describes the Four Cycles of Love: 1) Breaking up; 2) Losing weight; 3) Plastic surgery; 4) Starting a new relationship.

Okay, so that character is really shallow. But she has a point. Back when we were in our thirties, to get prepared for dating we thought mostly about getting in shape, plus maybe buying some new clothes and make-up. When we’re over fifty, we may require a little extra intervention. I’m not talking about Sex and the City or face-lifts, but I am suggesting that we need to redress Mother Time in whatever way that works. It may be a little collagen or Botox, or yoga classes, but here’s the bottom line: you’ve got to look like you still like to do it. And that may involve pushing beyond our comfort zones.

In my own case, nothing makes me happier than a day when I’m alone in the house and I can settle into what Oprah calls “schlumpadinka” mode. Sweats, tee shirt, no makeup—you may know the routine.

Some weeks after our wedding date, when I first emerged in full schlumpadinka splendor, I looked at my husband and said, “Oh honey, I’m so sorry.” I realized he’d never actually seen me look like that before; I’d always been in dating mode. Poor guy. It was too late to back out—he’d already walked down the aisle.

Then, when I had to get some publicity event a couple of years ago, I reverted right back to dating-preparation mode. I took a hard look at some candid shots, then picked up the phone and dialed my best friend’s plastic surgeon for a consult. (This is LA, after all. We all have friends who have plastic surgeons.)

Two rounds of fat grafts, one eye lift, a professional photographer and one make-up artist later, I considered it all to be worth the trouble. Men didn’t cherchez le frump when we were twenty years old, and they definitely don’t when we’re fifty. But some women disagree that we should have to play that game.

“He should like me for who I am,” they object.

Well, yes, but consider this update from the dating battlefront: Every Friday night, my tiny seaside turns into a hunting ground for YOPPS (Young People on the Prowl). The town’s many bars fill with guys jammed in with girls who teeter around the boardwalk in tight skirts and stilettos. The only women over forty are the bemused married matrons who actually live in the town; all the Happily Marrieds are dressed in sweats and comfortable walking shoes.

But if one of those Happily Marrieds becomes a Suddenly Single when she’s fifty, she might want to refresh her dating memory with a couple of lessons from her YOPP sister.

Lesson 1: Cleavage never hurts.

Lesson 2: Stilettos hurt, but they often help.

What about you? Do you have any tips for reentering the dating game, at any age? Anything to avoid?

Working Out While “Workin’ It”

I’m always on the prowl for unusual and bizarre information, especially when it has to do with bodies and exercise.

My latest find is an exercise class called “Stiletto Strength,” and it’s taking the gym world by spike heel.

The classes were developed by a gym called Crunch, which offers them in Los Angeles, New York, and Miami.

Here’s the stiletto class description from their online site:

Stiletto Strength
B.Y.O.H. – Bring Your Own Heels and strut your stuff runway style in this calf-boosting, posture-building, cat-walking diva class.

Evidently all calves are simply not created equal when it comes to teetering around in tarty heels—some of us require a workout just to learn how to hobble.

I wouldn’t even try. Along with practically every other muscle group, I’m a member of the calf-muscle deprived group. But there’s a reason for this: I grew up as a member of the “Stiletto Gap Generation.” Back in the late 70’s, when I was going through maximum adolescent angst, no one dreamed of wearing high heels, not even the girly-girls in the southern town where I lived. Heels meant you were overdressed. They meant you were trying too hard. They were too obvious. I don’t recall seeing a single pair of high heels in anyone’s closet during college. Later, during the 80’s, most of us switched to power heels—which meant two inches high, max.

Then I clobbered one of my knees and stopped thinking about heels altogether, except for avoiding them whenever possible. If an occasion demanded me to wear heels, I’d go for a cunning little kitten style. And I didn’t feel the least bit out of step—to my way of thinking, stilettos were what my five-foot tall mother had worn, to make herself look taller. They were strictly for the cocktail crowd, which meant O-L-D.

Fast forward twenty or so years, and I must have snapped awake—I think it happened sometime between Sex and the City and Desperate Housewives. I realized that torture shoes had made a roaring comeback, even for women my age. (Like all things fashion-related, I probably discovered this bit of news about ten years late).

So, should I take an exercise class to pump up my calves, and learn how to improve my range of motion in my ankle and great toe, which is evidently critical to acquiring a proper stiletto stride?
Hell, no! I’m already doing major damage control on my abs, thighs and triceps. There’s no stamina left over for building up ankles and toes.

So ladies, I give you your Jimmy Choos. Hand me my Easy Spirits. I guess won’t be seeing you in Stiletto Strength.

On the other hand, I won’t be seeing you at the orthopedic surgeon’s office in five years, either.