I am dining out with four of my high school girlfriends at a tony yet casual restaurant in Kansas City.

It’s an impromptu reunion for a friend who is visiting from Chicago, one we have not seen since our respective 50th birthdays last year. Our topic of conversation: the mid-century mark – the good, the bad and the ugly. Someone makes the point that, sure, sometimes it’s depressing, but now that she’s 50, she knows exactly what she wants, has no qualms about asking for it and, frankly, has very little patience when she doesn’t get it. And, wow, is it great!

“Yes!”

“So true!”

“Sing it, sister!” We all chime in as we clink our glasses and sip our beverages of choice.

We move from the bar to a round table in the nonsmoking section of the restaurant. Chatting and laughing loudly enough to turn heads, we’re causing a bit of a scene and I wonder whether our fellow diners are sorry they kicked the nicotine habit.

Our waiter, a well-groomed man in his mid-30s, approaches the table. His amenable yet professional manner tells me he is a veteran of the service industry. He smiles and says, “Good evening, ladies.” Pleasant enough, but I detect a hint of fear in his eyes, as if his personal terror alert was just raised from Elevated to High.

“Something else from the bar before dinner?” he asks.

In no particular order, we all respond.

“I’ll have a lemon drop martini. No sugar around the rim, please.”

“Beer for me. Whatever you have that’s light, in a chilled glass if you’ve got it.”

“I would love a Tanqueray and sugar-free tonic with two limes. If you don’t have sugar-free, I’ll have a Sea Breeze with twice as much grapefruit as cranberry juice. A 3-to-1 ratio would be fine. And two limes, still. Thanks.”

“I’d like another sauvignon blanc but not the brand I had before. I think there was another one with a frog or a toad in the name. Or some other reptile. Is a toad an amphibian? It was a dollar cheaper, though. I remember that.”

“Just water for me,” I say. The waiter, who has been scribbling furiously on his pad, looks up and smiles, gratefully.

“With two lemons,” I add. “Three, if they’re little.”

He nods and jots that down, too.

I want to say “don’t worry, we’re good tippers,” but he has scurried off to the bar, leaving us to contemplate our dinner orders.

We pose the question “what are you going to have?” at least 10 times in the next 20 minutes, but there are many other important matters to discuss. The latest on everybody’s kids. Our parents’ health. Jobs. Travels. Recent medical procedures. Facial hair. Diminishing sex drive. Vitamins. Soy. The friends who didn’t make it to dinner (thus becoming fair game for gossip).

The waiter returns every five minutes attempting to take our order but retreats each time the table erupts in laughter after a comment like, “Then he said, ‘Honey, I checked my libido at the door. Can I come in?’ Ha, ha, ha!”

Finally, we turn our attention to the menu and decide what we want. Exactly what we want.

The waiter comes back and, suddenly, we’re all playing Meg Ryan in the second most-famous restaurant scene from “When Harry Met Sally”:

“I’d like the chef salad, please, with the oil and vinegar on the side and the apple pie a la mode. But I’d like the pie heated, and I don’t want the ice cream on top. I want it on the side, and I’d like strawberry instead of vanilla if you have it. If not, no ice cream, just whipped cream but only if it’s real. If it’s out of a can, then nothing.”

Four salad dressings on the side, six substitutions, two half-portions and three extra plates later, we have all been served exactly what we wanted.

Our beleaguered waiter is issuing our separate checks. He is perspiring profusely and no doubt rethinking his chosen profession.

Finally, we get up from the table, satisfied and still yucking it up.

Someone says, “You know, Mom was right. Life really does begin at 50!”

As I hand our poor server a huge and well-deserved tip, I hope he finds consolation in what my friend just said. Because, in the last two hours, I think we’ve aged him at least 15 years.