I recently joined an exclusive book club. As in, only one member. It’s not as if I didn’t try other groups. My first foray was with co-workers who met every two weeks at lunchtime. The discussions consisted of everyone reading aloud her favorite lines while stopping to check emails. Plus, I never had time to finish a book before I was told to start the next. The Paris Wife? Never got past the courtship. 3 Cups of Tea? Only got through two. Reading became homework. When it was my turn, I picked Breakfast at Tiffany’s. “I loved the kiss at the end,” Margo said. “What kiss?” we all asked. That’s when we realized Margo had simply rented the (altered ending) movie. No time management problems for her! Next, my neighbor Rhonda invited me to her book club. The group chose the entire year’s list in January. I joined in February. We met the third Tuesday of every month. Except when Rhonda

had theater tickets. Then we’d reschedule. “I like everything Oprah likes,” Rhonda told me. Good news for Stedman. “But why are her recommendations always depressing?” Gina asked. “I want to kill myself after each one.” “Yeah. That Pilot’s Wife got screwed,” Janine said. “A similar thing happened to my third cousin,” Bonnie told us, followed by a lively debate about Bonnie’s cousin, Gina’s ex-husband and Suzi’s job at JetBlue. I wasn’t in a book club. I was in women’s talk therapy. I lasted through November, mainly due to Rhonda’s theme-related refreshments (The Help—black and white cookies…Steve Jobs— apples and chips….). My new book club meets whenever I want. I’m usually in pajamas. Under the covers. I get to pick the book. I get to pick the refreshments. And if the discussion’s not interesting, I just shut off the light and go to sleep.