I went to Hooters for the first time yesterday, and while I won't be joining the Hoot Club any time soon — an actual club you can join, I have the sign-up sheet and everything — it was less awful than I was expecting. Allow me to explain.

My reaction to finding out I'd be recording a live Adam Carolla Show podcast at Hooters — a place I'd heard about, joked about, but blissfully never visited — was not good. I tried to act like a sport, but inside I was filled with dread. Imagine a red-blooded American male's reaction to finding out he'd be going to Hooters for work. He'd probably be pretty excited. Now, for contrast, imagine his reaction to hearing he'd have to sit in a room filled with angry women complaining about their periods. My reaction was more akin to the latter. Ever since that Hooters date got put on the calendar, I began acting as if there were a giant Boob of Damocles hanging over my head.

Every time I imagined setting foot into the boob-palace-disguised-as-a-wing-joint-disguised-as-a-sports-bar, every fiber of my being rebelled. When I was told it'd be best if I arrived at least 45 minutes early, I acted as if I'd been asked to let someone remove my kidney with a rusty spoon. While 45 minutes really isn't much time, an extra 45 minutes in a place they can't pay you enough to be in is an eternity.

Part of the discomfort came from trying to pretend I didn't feel this way. I'm a cool chick who can hang with the guys; I'm not some uptight prude! I'm not a square! I'm totally down with ogling hot chicks and um, dipping sauces. Or whatever it is that happens at Hooters. Plus, I'm a professional. If I get news we're going to be performing in my ex-boyfriend's living room, which, frankly, would be a weird place to do a live show, I would be pleasant and delightful.

Except I was neither. Instead, I was miserable, short-fused and cranky.

But beyond the discomfort of trying to deny a feeling, there was the actual dread of having to attend Hooters, which I'm still trying to sort out.

It didn't make sense to me that I should feel this way — I've got a dirtier mind than a lot of men and enjoy a good fart joke. So why was I so uncomfortable? It occurred to me that I'd feel less uncomfortable in an actual strip club. There, at least, we're all being honest about our intentions.

I'm fine with places that cater to baser instincts, just as I'm fine with strip clubs and prostitution — hell, I think prostitution should be legalized. What it really comes down to is that I'm uncomfortable being looked at through the same lens that people see Hooters waitresses — and by extension, says the voice in my head, all women who happen to be in a Hooters. If you lined up a bunch of Hooters waitresses and then stuck me somewhere in there it would be like that SNL sketch where amid the attractive women there's one who is missing teeth and has a shrunken hand. I'm not saying I'm grotesque — I know I'm not — but in a bar that celebrates an itty-bitty waist and two big things in your face, I'm just — different.

My fiance, who, like almost all men I've talked to, has been to a Hooters before, told me it would be different than I was expecting. That it'd be 99 percent sports bar, one percent Hooters waitresses.

Turns out he was right. I was happy to leave, but not for the reasons I expected. We happened to be there on a day when the entire surrounding area was filled with people, traffic was nightmarish, parking was impossible, and I couldn't hear myself think.

As for the boobs, though, turns out I was fine with them.

Hear more from Alison Rosen on her podcast, "Alison Rosen Is Your New Best Friend" or on the immensely popular "Adam Carolla Show" podcast. Follow her on Twitter @alisonrosen or visit her website at www.alisonrosen.com. To find out more about Alison Rosen and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate Web page at www.creators.com.