Last weekend, I did something I never thought I’d ever do.

I went to Hooters.

At first, when my friends Shanna and Mark approached me with the idea, I shot it down, citing excuses ranging from lack of funds to keeping my pride and dignity.

There was no doubt in my mind why my friend Mark wanted to go. For the food, I’m sure.

I finally decided the story I would have to tell would make the excursion worth it.

The whole way down to West Des Moines, I fidgeted nervously in the backseat, picturing a restaurant full of middle-aged men gawking at big-busted, model-like women in short, tight orange shorts.

When we reached the restaurant, I peered into the window and, much to my amazement, there were other women there, besides the waitresses. There were even kids. I didn’t even know Hooters had high chairs.

I tried not to make eye contact until we made it to the safety of our table.

Sure there were middle-aged men there, but many of them came with their wives and their wives didn’t seem to mind.

The waitresses were all friendly, and most of them seemed like average girls with average bodies.

I decided I had maybe been overreacting before.

Then the waitresses started dancing. To the Macarena.

OK, so that was a little different.

Overall, the experience wasn’t as scandalous as I expected it to be. I’ve waitressed before, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t do a little flirting in hopes of earning a couple extra dollars.

On the flip side, when I go out with the girls, it does seem like we always tip cute, attentive male waiters slightly better than other servers. I guess, in some very far-fetched way, I’m just as guilty as the middle-aged guy sitting across the aisle from me at Hooters.

Mark said he learned something from the experience too. It’s written on the back of his shirt.

“Roses are red, violets are blue, the shorter the shorts, the better the view.”