We’re Wrong About Book Clubs
What I learned when I finally joined one
Like a lot of people, when I hear the words “book club,” I picture pastel, wine-at-4pm suburban life. Charcuterie boards. Sweater sets. The glib chatter of women who think way too much about the color of their curtains and way too little about the book they were supposed to read but, of course, didn’t. (But gosh, Cindy’s new landscaping looks great, doesn’t it?)
This is why, despite being a bookish middle-aged female currently desperate to make friends, I resisted joining one. For years, it felt like an uncrossable line: the thing that would signal the end of my younger, vital life and the beginning of my irrelevance. Hard pass.
But a few months ago, when my neighborhood newsletter mentioned the “Daisy Book Club” (yes, that’s the real name, kill me now) was open to new members, I finally caved. I suspected I’d hate it, but it was a social interaction with people who can wipe their own butts, and it didn’t require tuition or a commute.
And, in theory, I like books — though I haven’t had a chance to read much since tiny humans started exploding out of my body.
So I tossed some frozen mini-quiches in an oven, put them in Tupperware like I’d actually made them, and walked over to Deanne’s house at 6:00 on Monday, fully braced for…
