Only a few male-only realms are left in the United States, and those that exist mostly do so in the minds of women.

Oh sure, there are a few cities that still have male only clubs where even bringing a woman as a guest is frowned upon. But by and large most male-only locales are brought about by women themselves.

Few women have the desire to sit in a strip club. The chicken wings at Hooter’s? Face it guys we are on to that too, we just would rather eat somewhere else. And most women won’t stop by the local bar for an after work drink by themselves. If we want a glass of wine or cocktail we prefer to do so in the company of others because somewhere in our female upbringing we were told it just doesn’t “look right” for a woman to sit at a bar alone. Then there is the one other place that we women perceive as a male only club, and it was that one I had to venture into alone two weeks ago.

It started at a soccer game where I casually mentioned to car dealer Randy Brumfield that I needed to begin looking for my daughter Holly a car. She will be graduating from Ole Miss in May and heading to Atlanta to graduate school. Her red Mustang that dad gave her for Christmas six years ago needs to come home to baby sister who will driving in a year, and Holly needs something with more room to haul all her art projects.

Naturally, being the sales man that he is, Randy called in a few days. I told him I was just starting to look and was not ready to buy. What I didn’t tell him was that his phone call made me break out in a cold sweat.

Yeah, I know, those of you who know me find that hard to believe. In the years since my husband died I’ve bought and refinanced houses, traveled by myself, snatched a teenage boy back in line a time or two with the mere look on my face, learned to go to parties by myself, put together my own gas grill and even on occasion stopped and had a cocktail by myself in a bar.

Basically most of my friends think of me as very independent and quite unafraid.

But, buy a car, are you kidding? I once watched my father-in-law walk away from a car deal over floor mats and a tank of gas. This was after I watched him write what he felt was a good price on a small piece of paper and pass it across the desk to salesman who looked like he worked for the mafia.

And my dad, well, I could call him, again. The Ford Excursion I was driving was due to his help. Six months after my husband passed away, via cell phone and over a three-day period my dad helped me buy the Excursion.

I learned about letting salesmen know I wanted the car, then walking off from the car and finally closing the deal. When it came time to buy Matthew a car I chickened out and called my dad, again.

He compared cars, picked it out, negotiated the price and called me to come write the check, it’s a wonder they put the title in my name.

But then a week after the soccer game, there at a red light, right beside me was my friend Brad in the very vehicle I myself had been lusting after, the new Expedition, extended length.

He waved and rolled down his window and I made the mistake of professing my desire for his vehicle. The next morning I received another call from Randy and this time I went to look. Three days later armed with price information, several cups of coffee and all the courage of the cowardly lion. I managed to buy my new vehicle at what I considered a reasonable price. Three days later I closed the deal on Holly’s new car.

I still don’t understand why they can’t just put the real sales price on the car so you can go through and pick yours out just like you do in every other shopping venue. And I still don’t understand why more car places don’t cater to women the way mine does.

The only question my father-in-law had was did I get floor mats and a tank of gas. The answer was yes.

The only question my dad is going to have is did I pay sticker price; the answer is no.

The only question I have is why didn’t I brave this male joint sooner?

Christina Hall writes a weekly column. She can be reached at christina.hall@natchezdemocrat.com.