My sister invited me to go on a "girls' night out" with her and several of her friends yesterday. Before I accepted, I had to think about why I don't usually go out with them. I couldn't think of a good reason not to go, so I said, "sure."

As is the usual plan, we were all to meet at my sister's house. I never like to start off an evening this way because it's just like going to a slumber party when I was a kid. And I was never really that kind of kid. And these girls are all over 30. In fact, you might even call them women. But I wouldn't.

The reason I still think of them as girls is because of the ritual my sister calls "female bonding." Perhaps I'm some kind of cretin, but this is the part I just can't stand. And I can't complain about this procedure to men because, even though they would never think of doing this type of bonding with other men, it sounds like fun to them. Here's what happens: at various times after the appointed hour of arrival, the girls wander in one at a time, always late, usually coming from work or the health club and in need of a full makeover. I'm usually the first one there (on time), often even before the hostess, who has selected the time for this ritual to begin. I'm almost always ready to go out as soon as I get there.

After much time watching my sister talk on the phone, and the usual girl talk such as, "my hair..., there are no good men left..., oh, I got the cutest new outfit, and it was on sale for only $350," etc., the fashion show begins. This generally consists of my sister taking out and sometimes, trying on, all of the new suits, dresses, leather pants, etc. that she has purchased recently. In addition to the appropriate accessories to match. We have to look at shoes and earrings to decide which ones go better with the new clothes. "What do you think? Do the black suede shoes or the black velvet shoes look better with this dress?"

At about this time one or another of the visiting girls will start to undress for her shower, after which time she will parade around naked while she decides what to wear, puts her make-up on and complains about how fat she is. Again, it may just be a quirk that I have, but, it really irritates me to listen to very thin girls who work out every day and walk around in skin tight clothes to accent their well-toned bodies (and to attract men) complaining about how fat they are. Apparently they just want reassurances. I swear to you that every time I hear one of these girls saying something like, "I'm only three pounds away from my most recent all-time high," I'd like to respond, "well, yeah, you are looking kinda chunky. In fact, I was about to ask you if I could borrow your cat suitïit looks like it would fit me."

But, I imagine that this "fat" girl would really be insulted if I said something like that. I figure she must be so insecure already, it would be a really mean thing to say to her. So I just keep my mouth shut and go into the other room to look for something to read.

When everyone is finally dressed and coordinated with the proper jewelry, belts, nails, make-up and hair, and the last straggler (who's managed to dress at home!) wanders in, we can finally leave (late, of course) for the restaurant, where we're meeting the rest of the girls, who are also late. By this time it's about 8:00 (on a week night-- at least an hour later on the weekend). But then, no one (except the other fogies like myself) eats before 7:30.

When we finally make it through dinner, including the decisions regarding what is safe to eat because it has the lowest fat content and calories, and are ready to leave (about two hours later), we have to go through the ordeal of splitting up the bill. Last night's debate was over which total to base the tip on-- before or after the tax, and whether it's best to leave 15% or 20% or somewhere in between. We decided on the in-between amount. Somehow I'd forgotten that this little detail alone is a good enough reason to stay home and watch television. But we eventually work it out and manage to leave without causing the waitperson to quit her job.

Then, it's off to the newest trendy nightclub, with its valet parking, $10 cover charge and skinny young girls in bell bottoms and platform shoes and lots of cleavage. Now, I was not a big fan of the bell bottoms or the platforms the first time around. I said I'd never wear them but, of course, I succumbed to peer pressure and put them on, just like everybody else. But I never really liked them. That was okay. I was young then, so it really didn't matter. Well, times have changed (for me, at least) and I just ain't gonna wear those clothes this time around.

I'm not so young anymore. I haven't been particularly skinny since I was about eight years old, and I am definitely not trendy. So the question is, what am I doing in this dark, crowded, smoky bar with the loud, pounding music and the guys with hair much longer than mine's ever been? I don't really even like to drink. Especially when I've spent the last two hours having dinner. I find a nice little corner and drink my ice water and just hang around watching people as if I was at the theater for about twenty minutes until my head aches so hard I've just got to go.

I say my good-byes (or just sneak out) and as I stand outside waiting for the valet to find my car, I think about how much money I wasted in less than twenty minutes for no apparent reason on parking, the cover charge, tipping the valet and, oh yes, let's not forget the gas to this place that is nowhere near where I live.

On my drive home I once again think about the reasons I don't often join in on these girls' nights out. I remind myself to remind myself next time I'm invited on one to make up a really good excuse why I can't make it. Then I think about the wonderful shower I'm going to have as soon as I get home to remove the nasty smoke from my hair and how good it's going to feel to lay down all by myself between those nice cool sheets and be welcomed by my sweet little cat who loves me exactly the way I am and is always delighted to see me, even if I'm not giving her food at the moment.

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