This weekend found me lounging on a perfectly sunny Montauk beach for a 3-day-long birthday celebration in honor of bff Alex Weiss. We swam in the surf, sunned on the sand, shopped the beloved Amagansett Farmer’s Market, ate way too much New England clam chowder and lobster rolls from Lunch, and sipped cocktails at The Surf Lodge. All in all, ’twas a most idyllic stretch of time. Until! On the last day of the weekend, Alex came strolling across the sand clutching the Sunday edition of the New York Post. Tucked inside was a seemingly innocuous copy of the NY Post magazine. Usually, I refuse to subject myself to such mind-numbing drivel, but on this particular day I picked it up in a cavalier, half-asleep daze. Flipping lazily through the celebrity-filled pages, I stopped short at a bold headline that blared, “A Field Guide to Cougars.”
“Gasp!” I gasped. Even for The Post, this seemed highly inappropriate, insulting, and sensationalized. Among the first victims up were respected female figures like Madonna, Anna Wintour, and Katie Couric. Under each of their photographs was a mini article listing their Prey, Habitat, Markings, past Catfights, and Cubs. I mean.
“This is ridiculous!” I sputtered sitting up from my sun-drugged haze. I ventured further into the article. And there, peering up at me innocently from the next page, was the lovely Genevieve Jones. Genevieve Jones is 34. 34 years old!?! Since when are 34-year-old’s considered cougars? At less than a decade her junior, I guess I’m in close proximity to falling into that unflattering category myself. I didn’t know whether to think, “Time to get serious about Engagement Plan 2010” or “Time to find every NY Post within a 10-mile vicinity and stoke up a fun little beach bonfire.”
Instead, I found myself thinking, “Cute dress.” Sigh.
I quickly forgot about any feminist instincts I may have. Out went thoughts of my mother’s incessant nagging (i.e. “When are you going to settle down with a nice young man and get married?! And give me grandchildren??). All I could really focus on in that moment was that gorgeous little lace frock and the fact that Ms. Jones was pulling the sheer trend off splendidly with the vintagey black bandeau bra and tap-short combo underneath.
“Where is that dress from?” I mused for the next two hours, thoughtfully fingering the dog-eared page.
I STILL don’t have it figured out. Any ideas?
P.S. Confidential to Genevieve: NY Post. Is. Crap.