I want to be a trophy wife!

I've been thinking of really great jobs I might want to someday give a try. And I just know this isn't going to be politically correct and all, but I think being a trophy wife would be simply swell. Peachy keen!

Before America got all snooty about equality and things a girl — OK, a woman — could or should not do, being a trophy wife was it! I look at "Vogue Magazine" and "Architectural Digest" and "Town & Country" and I wonder what do these women do to earn the baubles on their fingers or the third house in Costa Rica? And then shazam, it dawns on me, ta da!, trophy wife perks!! I want'um!

For years, one of my favorite things to spot on Winter Park's Park Avenue was the guy, oh, about 60 years old, pushing a pram that's holding a screaming snot-nosed, 1-year-old. Maybe he's clutching the hand of a tugging 2-year-old while his princess window-shops. I juuuuuust love it. He's got that proverbial deer-in-the headlights look, and the misses, all decked out in heels, a short skirt, skimpy, frilly La Perla undies (you just know they are), with a rock the size of Rhode Island, is carrying bags. She's had the requisite "boob" job, maybe a chin implant and now she's oooooh-la-la purrfect. Uh, Daddy, pay the clerk. Now!

What better way to have it all than to have someone else pay for it. If, at the end of the day, you travel extensively, wear exquisite clothes, drink Dom Perignon Rose by the magnum, have a housekeeper, nanny and a boy toy of a personal trainer and, well, Daddy, pay the clerk. Now!

Let's ratchet this up a bit. Let's say you are Vogue-model beautiful. Long, forever long, lean legs. Long, lean abs. A New England pedigree. A face that would, indeed, launch a thousand ships. A sultriness with a surly indifferent attitude. A blase ennui mixed with a first-rate intellectual curiosity. "I've seen it all, dahlin'." Throw in a four-year Yale degree in 19th century French literature and a stint at that Frick (or Morgan) in the backroom organizing esoteric shows on the coins of the Hapsburgs. Perhaps, an MA from the London School of Economics and a year or two at the World Bank doing pilot programs in Kenya, teaching women capitalism.

You're on the slopes of Aspen wondering what to do with the rest of your life. You're almost 30 for god's sake! And that incessant bell in your uterus won't quit clanging and up slides (on Dynastars no less) a graying, laughing bon vivant who has the raucous look of insatiable randy fun (and the money to pay for it). He just reeks of wealth. What's a goil to do?

And the next morning, after an exhausting night of nonstop athletic, mindboggling, I'm-in-heaven sex, you fly off for Bali in his private Bombardier Learjet 85.

He's sold his business for $600 million, unloaded his "troublesome" old-model wife two years earlier (and the offending bimbette) and now wants a second chance at getting life right.

What's a girl to think?

Uh, Daddy, pay the clerk. Now!