(Continued)

Now as for Boca Babes, here are some clues: If it costs you $200 to get your hair cut and another $250 to get it colored, you might be a Boca Babe. If you don’t talk to anyone who doesn’t own anything made by Prada, then you just might be a Boca Babe. If your boobs are a size 38DD and you butt is a size 0, then you are probably a Boca Babe. If you live in a house the size of a jumbo jet hangar, then you are likely a Boca Babe. But if you don’t have a husband who’s a doctor, lawyer, investment banker, or developer raking in over a million a year, then you’re definitely not a Boca Babe. And if you’re all of the above but have hit the big 4-0, you’re no longer a Boca Babe; you’re now a Botox Babe.

I shed my Boca Babe persona like a snake shedding its skin the day I shed (okay, shot) my husband, and I’ve never looked back. I’m now a Hog-riding, ass-kicking, swamp-dwelling private eye. A solitary ScamBuster, making a fine living busting those shady deals I mentioned. So my temporary reversion to Babeness gives you some sense of the supreme sacrifice I was making for my friends.

But even though I’d transformed myself for the day, a part of the real me still came through. That was the rose tattoo on my left boob that peeked out of my low-cut dress, thanks to the strapless push-up corset that I’d strategically placed underneath. But let me tell you, between that and the high heels, I was in some serious discomfort. After all, I wasn’t 21 anymore. This whole hottie act does not get easier with time. My feet and back were killing me and I couldn’t take a breath without feeling like I would pass out. I was ready for this show to get on the road so I could disrobe.