“Hi, guys!” chirp two perky, young hostesses in unison, as my husband and I walk through the door. “Table for two, guys?”

“Please,” I answer, and follow the taller one through the restaurant, trying not to gawk at her impossibly short shorts. I think to myself, “If I ever dreamt hot pants would make a comeback, I might have kept mine from the ’70s. Um. Never mind :” (I tend to lose my grip on reality when I’m hungry.)

“OK, guys, your server will be with you in a minute,” she announces. “Have a great dinner, guys!”

“Thanks, uh : guy?” I mutter under my breath, irked for reasons that aren’t readily clear. As she walks away, my personal time machine launches me back to 1963.

I was 8 years old and, by the standards of the day, a bona fide tomboy. I had no interest in dolls or the color pink. There wasn’t a tree I couldn’t climb. My knees and elbows were in a constant state of scab, and I screamed in protest when Mom insisted I put on a dress.

In my suburban neighborhood, where kickball was played in the street and games of Red Rover often drew blood, young males outnumbered females 4 to 1. For girls like me who wanted some semblance of a social life, it was adapt or die. I grew to love tiny plastic Army men, building forts and playing “Cops and Robbers” with toy Tommy Guns. And while I couldn’t mimic real gunfire to save my soul (causing the boys to mock me ruthlessly), I never gave up trying.

I spent my entire childhood trying to be one of the guys.

Then, puberty hit. After a period of stubborn denial (“Excuse me? My body’s going to do WHAT?!?”), hormones took over and I slowly got in touch with my feminine side. Guys were no longer a group to be emulated. Boys were to be crazy about.

There were cute guys and gross guys. Nice guys and creepy guys. Guys you liked and guys you “like-liked.” I learned the harsh reality that the guys you “like-liked” probably wouldn’t “like-like” you back if you were “one of the guys.”

So I stopped trying.

No longer did I play basketball or Ditch ‘Em or Capture the Flag with boys in the neighborhood. I watched from the sidelines, chatting with their sisters and girlfriends. I saved my competitive edge for a few organized sports at my all-girls high school and went to the boys’ school on Friday nights to watch football from the stands.

I wasn’t miserable, by any stretch, but the guys did seem to be having more fun.

Back in the present, our waiter approaches carrying two waters with lemon. “Hi, guys!” he says, in a much too familiar way. “How are you guys tonight?”

“Fine,” I reply, getting annoyed again. I mean, how many times can they say that word before driving THEMSELVES crazy? And isn’t there some other term they can use to greet patrons? Something a little less crass; a little more – I don’t know – accurate? I’m a WOMAN, after all, with makeup on and everything! (I know, I know. “Guys” can be a gender-neutral term. I’ve used it myself, as in, “Hey, you guys! Wait up!”) But, c’mon people. Can’t we think of a more appropriate way to address a heterosexual 50-something couple?

I try to come up with an alternative. Something the service industry can use to replace the word “guys” forever. It will be my legacy. The thing I can do to leave the world a better place. Like Al Gore’s “Live Earth.”

Let’s see, there’s “Hi, y’all.” (Too Southern.) “Yo, peeps!” (Too trendy.) “Good evening, Madame and Monsieur.” (Too French.) “Hey, folks”? (Too : well, folksy.) What about “Greetings, special customers”? Or “Welcome, best-looking 50-something couple I’ve ever seen”? (Better, but probably too much of a mouthful.)

We order cocktails, and the waiter says, “I’ll be back with those drinks in a minute, guys.”

I rack my brain for a better option, but I get nothing.

That’s it! Let’s go with nothing. Just a simple “hello” or “may I take your order?” works beautifully. No titles required.

The waiter returns, sets the beverages on the table, and produces his order pad. I brace myself. He’s going to say it. I just know he is.

“What’s for dinner, guys?” he asks, brightly.

Where’s a Tommy Gun when you really need one?