Thursday, June 7, 2001

Good for Jenna Bush. No, not with the boozing and the fake ID. But you've got to admire the toe ring.

In case you missed it: After getting busted for drinking the first time around, when she was nabbed with a beer, the Billy Carter of the Bush administration dressed for court in pink capri pants, a tight black shirt, sandals - and a toe ring.

I don't know about you, but when I plead ``no contest'' I usually wear pumps and Grandma Bar-style pearls (around my neck, not my arch). But I'm a chicken that way.

Jenna got off pretty easy - a few hours of community service, a little alcohol counseling. She probably complained about her sentence, but if you ask me, she should consider herself lucky. There's something about a toe ring that doesn't quite convey contrition, doesn't say, ``Your honor, I know what I did was wrong.''

Toe rings aren't as in-your-face as a cheek or tongue ring. But they still send a message. ``I'm a free spirit,'' they say. The thumb ring of the foot world, they send out an unmistakable party vibe.

``My host is up for a good time,'' the toe ring proclaims. ``Never mind those Secret Service agents outside in Hawaiian shirts.''

(Speaking of whom, what do they do, anyway? The second time Jenna was nabbed, at a Tex-Mex restaurant in Austin, a few agents were outside in Hawaiian shirts. At least one must be 21 years old. You would think they could have protected Jenna from herself and bought the little lady a margarita.)

I realize that Goofus (to Barbara's Gallant) has attracted some negative attention, but part of me envies her bad-girl attitude. I want to be like Jenna. OK, I've said it.

But I can't be 19 again, or have long blond hair, or be related to a current and a former president. My only chance is the toe ring.

On Monday, I headed over to Newbury Comics. Walking along Newbury Street in my skirt, athletic socks and running shoes (who says the '80s are dead?), I fantasized about how the toe ring was going to change my life.

With that ring on, I'd spend my summer not in an office, but on the Cape, in a beachfront house with a big deck, and friends would always be over, and we'd be laughing, in a J. Crew-catalog sort of way, about nothing in particular, and we'd have lots of free time, but really good jobs that didn't demand our attention, and we'd all have great teeth and nice tans, but no sun damage.

By the time I got to Newbury Comics I was desperate for that ring, but embarrassed to buy it. I know how Jenna felt about being carded. I was worried the pimply clerk would ask for ID - in reverse. ``Ah, sorry, ma'am, you're too old for a toe ring. It might catch on your walker.''

But a buck's a buck, I guess, because he sold me the ring. A new life for only $4.99. It's a lot cheaper than Botox, I'll tell you that.

But which toe to wear it on? Ring man? Tall man? The pinky toe? No, that might make me look tough. Settling on my pointer toe, I slipped it on and, having changed into sandals, strutted out.

Since I was on the skateboard end of Newbury Street, the first people I encountered were two young, multiply pierced punks asking for money.

Instead of giving them some, or rushing by, like my old self might have, I nodded coolly and said, ``Hey.'' I was one of them, and I sensed it.

Maybe they didn't see the ring, or maybe its magic hadn't had a chance to work yet, but the girl looked at me as if I were crazy.

As if, as if - as if I was wearing a ring on my foot, or something insane like that.