I am not independently wealthy, but I live comfortably for a self-employed, twentysomething woman. I make my student-loan payments on time. I can afford to rent in ultra-pricey San Francisco. I creatively budget for the seasonal pair of Prada sandals. And I can afford health insurance -- a luxury for a freelance writer. I've never had to deny myself any basic life necessities, though my savings-account balance rarely exceeds $100. I guess you could call it "getting by."

So why do I get a nauseated, nervous feeling at the prospect of social situations with certain friends? Unless you're permanently enrolled in the AmEx Gold Dad plan, I'm sure you've been subjected to this scenario:

It's Friday afternoon and you're sitting at your computer, wishing the little hand on the clock would move more quickly to the five. Just as you're reviewing the weekend's possible social opportunities, the name of your (insert any lucrative, successful career here) pal pops up in your inbox. The e- mail is an invitation for happy hour -- which, with her, is never strictly a 5-to-7 p.m. affair. The destination is never a two-for-one-drink-special sort of establishment, and her definition of bar food is foie gras, not chicken wings. In her company, an event meant to relieve workday stress always seems to provoke unnecessary anxiety. Reluctantly, you agree to meet her. For one drink. "That's it," you firmly promise yourself (and your pocketbook). You enjoy her company, but the race to keep up with her financially is exhausting.

A few hours later, you find yourself nervously downing $8 glass after $8 glass of pinot noir, mentally tabulating the damage. The usual $40 ATM withdrawal isn't sufficient -- and you've only gotten through the first stop in the evolving evening. There's still dinner at a super-trendy restaurant, where an impromptu visit means a long wait at the bar (along with a big bar tab) and the dinner carries an exorbitant price tag appropriate to such a hip locale. And frequently, the evening doesn't end with the final bite of flan. Despite your pleas to go home and your obvious discontent at having blown your month's entire car payment in a mere five hours, your friend's response is a matter-of-fact "I'll cover you for the rest of the night. Don't worry about it." The gesture is appreciated, of course, but it's a little too late for damage control. The morning-after guilt of overspending hurts far more than the hangover.

Short of basing your social circle on your friends' earnings, how do you avoid falling victim to this uncomfortable situation? Money can be a sticky topic of conversation. In my experience, few people readily admit their lack of funds, while those with generous incomes have little shame in flaunting them. It's a delicate issue, and if not handled carefully it can cause irreparable rifts in otherwise solid friendships.

I bitched for months about my friend Gracie. She and her beau moved to San Francisco and bought an $800,000 apartment. I didn't even know that I knew people (or even knew people who knew people) who could swing such swank digs, and I was thrilled to have one of my all-time favorite friends in the same time zone, let alone the same area code.

But I quickly realized that our lifestyles were impossible to reconcile. I can afford a few reasonably priced nights out per week -- e.g., take-out Thai and a bottle of basic red wine, or the $6.95 all-you-can-eat Indian buffet, rounded out with free live music and a game of pool at a local bar. As much as I adore getting glammed up and indulging in white-tablecloth service, I try to make the most of my entertainment budget. I should've known after our first night on the town (sushi, valet parking, wine bar, valet parking again, dancing -- price tag $150), that I was well out of my league. Several events followed; if I so much as winced at the destination or menu prices, Gracie and her fiancé would immediately volunteer to pay.

The free ride seemed an attractive solution at first. Who wouldn't be enticed by the champagne-and-caviar fantasy after being accustomed to a juice-box-and-peanut-butter reality? I would provide witty banter and charming company, and they would foot the bill at locations of their choice. It wasn't until my lowbrow-destination suggestions were repeatedly shot down that I began to feel a bit like a whore who'd willingly relinquished decision-making input in exchange for fiscal immunity and a short-lived good time.

So I did what I should've done from the start: I stopped going out every time an invitation was extended. If the restaurant or club was priced beyond my means, I'd either pay for my exploits accordingly or join the party for just dessert or drinks. I learned not to feel obligated (or give in to the pressure) to partake in all the evening's festivities. Spending time with your friends is the most valuable aspect of socializing, and I can be fulfilled by good conversation and a cocktail, rather than a marathon all-night production. Now I rarely accept my friends' offers to foot the bill -- as much as I'd sometimes like to. And though I'll gladly pick up the occasional round of drinks, you'll never find me splurging on dinner for four at a fine-dining establishment.

For now, I'll stick to my juice boxes and peanut butter.

Charyn Pfeuffer can be reached at cpfeuffer@yahoo.com.

Issue Date: September 14 - 20, 2001