Book Club

My neighbor invited me to join a book club and I debated, given my reading track record since I'd had kids, whether I'd be a contributor or a drag on the group. I last completed a book in early July, and only managed that feat because it was an easy enough read that I could read the entire book while nursing over the course of a five-day stay at the cabin. Usually what happens though is that I check out a book from the library, renew it and then eventually pay a fine on it before even cracking open the cover and then returning it long overdue. Would I be able to handle the pressure of reading an entire book every month?

But I was drawn in by the desire to meet new people and SOCIALIZE. Chris agreed that I need to get out more and not talk about babies. (But showed up and learned two members are pregnant, so I don't think this group will escape baby talk.) If everyone weren't so darn funny and nice, they'd be intimidating, these people who had stories to tell that didn't revolve around nap schedules and babies' bowel movements. One woman is a college English professor who's about to publish her memoir. Impressive. (I kept mum on what I used to think was the super cool blog I've been writing.) But I realized during our inaugural meeting that some light-hearted intellectual conversation soothed the dulled brain cells worn down after talking to one-year-olds all day. Even when next month's discussion will be about the book titled I Don't Care About Your Band: What I Learned from Indie Rockers, Trust Funders, Pornographers, Felons, Faux-Sensitive Hipsters, and Other Guys I've Dated. At least I wasn't the only one who pushed for something easy and funny for our first book. Really though, the professor said it's well-written.