Sure, I appreciate the fine rich taste of Callebaut chocolate; but I doubt very much I’d ever think to myself, “Well, at least it was awesome chocolate…” as a stray chunk accidentally lodged itself into a wrong pipe on the way down, choking me to death. Y’see, even the things we love can sometimes take a left-turn into Unpleasantville.
Cougars are no exception. There’s one in my building who’s staked a claim on me, and despite my (general) appreciation of all things cougaresque, this particular specimen is creeping me out to no end. She takes a cougar’s attractive qualities and milks them like a dairy farmer two notices from foreclosure. For instance:
* She doesn’t exude confidence, she spews it — all over me, in fact, holding my face in her hands while gushing about my “adorableness.”
* For a woman (who’s surely) over 60, I can certainly see her sex appeal. Too bad I’m not interested: chemistry is still chemistry. Somehow she’s confusing chemistry with alchemy: whatever smelly potion she applies (and smelly it is) before bathing me in hugs casts nothing more than spells of nausea.
* She’s clearly retiring from a successful career (I never ask what she did for a living because her standard reply to everything is, “We should get together for a glass of wine — I’ve got some wuuuuuuuuuuuunderful stories to share…”) She dresses well, sports an expensive do, and spends much — although never enough — time abroad. But there’s something sad about it. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but there’s a sense of, not retirement but, failure, deeply unacknowledged.
And on and on.
I truly believe she’s getting lucky somewhere, with someone. Good for her. I mean that, I really do.
But I’ll have none of it. I’m tired of thwarting hugs, kisses, and cheek-squeezes in my lobby. It’s gruesomely embarrassing. And let me put this in writing, for the record: I’ve never — not once! — led her on.
It’s not my fault that older ladies have a thing for me. Argh.
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