Me-oooooowwwwww

I had a date last Friday night. With a 30-something cutie. Well, truth be told, drop the "something" and that's his actual age. Yep, that right. He's 30. Years. Old.

A baby, is what he is. And he looks 25. And he is darling.

We met a couple of weekends ago, casually on the street. I gave him my business card under the ruse of potentially teaching at his dance studio. Oh yeah, did I mention that he's a Latin guy? And a dancer? And a lawyer? And fluent in three languages with an accent to die for? He is a package of sweetness, that much I know.

Am I out of my element? Clearly. Am I having fun? Definitely.

My cute boy, R, apparently likes "older" women, in which case, I definitely qualify. He writes me long, sweet email messages and sends me several text messages a day. He drops a few Spanish and French lines in his notes and tells me everything I want to know about his past relationships.

I've never dated a 30-year-old. Or man in his 30s; at least, not in the last decade.

It's kinda fun, trying on this cougar role and being the older, wiser woman for once.

Although, he's about to find out that I am certainly on the old, old side of 30. Here it is 10pm and a text shows up: "Put on a dress and your salsa shoes. Pick you up in 15. We'll dance all night." HA! He's lucky that I even saw the text since the only things that I see at 10pm, generally, are the backs of my two eyelids.

Nevertheless, this could be a fun little adventure. The claws are out, my whiskers are twitching and I'm feeling like quite the cat on the prowl...