Toe Ring

“If you like me then you better put a ring on it” yelled my right foot, as I dangled it naked over the edge of the boat, soaking up the sun’s rays. (The first bit of light it has seen in many, many months.)

Perhaps it was the smell of the boat’s diesel generator or the rush of vitamin D that was clouding my better judgment, but somehow I knew it was time. If I couldn't commit now, then there was something seriously wrong. After all, we’ve been together 29 years now, and it’s been nothing but good to me the whole time.

I made the trek over the other side of the island to the over-priced, resorty-touristy shops, and persuaded the sales assistant to drop the chosen ring’s price in half, that way bringing it closer inline with the value of silver on the main land. (Don’t ask - don’t get!)

Quite nice, don’t you think?

Then all that was left to do was to throw stones at the glass house of double standards I had just built. It seems that despite finding toe rings on other people rather tacky (no offence to all my besties that wear one), I do love wearing one myself. If this trend continues, next time you see me I’ll be sporting low riders with an overhang of g-stringed strangled muffin top. Something I saw plenty of in Brisbane on Sunday night (but not on my besties).

As for my foot, well it couldn't be happier. Yesterday I caught it bragging to a stray sock about how it can’t stop staring at its own toe, and how if it wasn’t for Beyonce, it would never have felt empowered enough to ask for a ring. I’m praying none of my other body parts have to put up with this gushing for much longer, or they’ll get jealous.
"Jealous?!! As if!" yelled the ring finger on my left hand.