Since I'm the only female columnist here at The Post, some might expect me to offer a perspective that differs from, say, the male Post columnists', and perhaps I do. But as to giving you, the reader, a strictly female perspective, I have to say, no can do.

It has been established that I am a woman. But, like most males, I have a bit of trouble understanding many things women my age do. The biggest area in which I am clueless is fashion.

Lately, I have become super-sensitive to observing women's fashion, because I am desperately trying to figure it out. I am going to graduate soon, and I still haven't figured out what that "ooooat! ooooat!" call means. I think it all ties in to the tight clothing, though.

I can always tell when night falls in Athens, not just by the fact that the sky has inexplicably turned dark. I can tell because the black pants come out in frightening numbers.

Black pants are apparently a staple item in most women's wardrobe. I have nothing against black pants in general, but this particular type of pants boggles my mind. They are so tight as to make one wonder if blood is able to flow correctly. And women of all sizes and shapes wear them, regardless of whether they look right.

As an experiment, stand in one place on Court Street and count all the women wearing these tight black pants. Now, count all the women wearing the pants with a tight white shirt. Frightening, isn't it?

In the department of tightness, I am lacking. I think it is still illegal for me to wear any clothing that is remotely tight. This law has benefited many people, and it should stay on the books, maybe with a few additions besides myself.

Perhaps I am errant in thinking that if one's body is not suited to be seen by most human eyes, one should not attempt, for any reason, to wear tight clothing. Men, this also applies to you.

It seems that this love for close-fitting clothing is part of going to the bars. Since when does one have to get completely dolled up to go out to get a beer? My idea of getting dressed to go Uptown is putting on a clean shirt with my slightly baggy blue jeans. I also make it a point to smell nice, because if I didn't, no one would talk to me. This isn't enough, however.

When I get Uptown, I notice that everyone apparently just came from a wedding, because they are dressed to the nines - well, maybe just to the eights. My invitation must have gotten lost in the mail.

Here is another major difference. I carry my wallet and a Chapstick in the pocket of my jeans. Other women, however, have to bring a whole backpack to the bars. OK, so it's a miniature backpack, but this is another women's secret I have not been told. Also known as a "bar purse," it enables women to tote needed items around on their back, without having to jam seven million things in their pockets.

I wonder what would happen if someone carried a regular purse into a bar. "I'm sorry, you're going to have to leave that outside. It's not a regulation bar purse."

Which brings us back to that troublesome mating call: the "ooooat! ooooat!" noise. I know this originated in a Ô70s song, the title of which escapes me now, but as to why it has become the universal signal for "I'm having a really good time! I've had a couple of beers, and that guy over there is beginning to look appealing to me! I think I'll try to shack tonight!" I cannot offer any insight.

All I know is that it only takes one person to start a chain reaction of "ooooat! ooooat!" all the way across campus, as if OU students were long-lost cousins of a rare, injured bird.

I have never tried to make this noise, for fear that pigeons will land on my head. I think maybe if I jammed myself into some tight black pants and buttoned myself into a revealing white shirt, however, I might have enough air trapped in my lungs to belt it out.

Krist, a senior journalism major from University Heights, is a beauty school dropout.