Tonight was good. I had planned to meet a few women for drinks and dinner, then I’d race off early to make it to the new book club I was invited to join. Love nights like that, where you get to up and switch, like musical chairs, but with different chairs, and different music, and well, no. Sorry.
But that’s a lot of girl bonding to race through, which even for a seasoned over-sharer like me, still takes time. Before my first sip of the margarita, I knew. I knew there wasn’t a chance in hoo city that I’d be making it to book club.
Mind you, as much as I love to read, the types of books I have stacked bedside are written by shrinks and chefs. Right now, on my nightstand: Your Child’s Strengths, Pasta Harvest (it’s my bible, seriously), Defusing Angry People, Working the Plate, Nigella Christmas, The Element: How Finding Your Passion Changes Everything, Bullies, Tyrants & Impossible People, The Verbally Abusive Relationship, and obviously, Around My French Table. Because that Dorrie Greenspan can end anything—even this list!— on a high note. Also, now on my to-buy list: Out of Our Minds.
For me to miss the very first meeting of the club, especially after reading the book? And by “reading,” I don’t exactly mean “completing,” and perhaps “reading” isn’t the right verb either. “Mostly listening to most of it,” is more fitting. No, I didn’t join a book club with the intention of reading. I joined for the social aspect. Which, given that I missed NIGHT ONE, would be a FAIL. I digress. I purchased the AUDIOBOOK of The Paris Wife and even that I wasn’t able to finish on time. And yet, I’ve still managed to successfully paw my way through self-help and help-yourself-to-food books, no problem. Know what that says about me? Me. Me. And yes, Me. Interesting that I choose subjects that pertain to me and my life and my interests over wanting to escape all of it in the pages of fiction. No judgment (either way) on that observation. I think I just really like to learn.
What surprised me most about the night was the depth of our girl conversation. We spoke about such real topics, things for whatever reason people don’t usually disclose until they’re on sure friend footing. Death, abortion, adoption, fertility, marriage. And it wasn’t the tequila. It might just be that later in life, we rip through the light and get into the grit, straight off. I liked it. Though, next time, I won’t be double booking. Next month’s book: The Hunger Games.
