"Olive Kitteridge" at Leslee's rooftop on an impossibly beautiful spring evening.
That got me remembering. A year and a quarter ago, one of my closest friends in Chicago, Leslee, had the idea to form Book Club. I waffled a bit about committing at first -- Leslee is a children's librarian and I was sure the others would force me to read the likes of Tolstoy-someone-or-other. Let's put it this way, I wasn't sure I could Keep Up with the Kardashians (know what I'm saying?), either in terms of time or desire to read literature outside of my preferred genre. But nevertheless, I saw this as an opportunity to try something new, and so the story goes of how I ended up belonging to a group of fun, warm, and accomplished girl friends. (That's also the story of how Alcohol Club was born, an idea conceived by The Fella in response to our get-togethers. The men eat our food, then run out for beer and shenanigans at a local joint while we do our thing.)
Book Club isn't what I expected, nor is it the stereotype that others paint in their minds when they hear you're in one. It's guaranteed monthly laughter, snarky remarks about Vincent Donofrio, cocktail shrimp on the rooftop, gritty Bangalore, revelations about marriage, comfy couches, snapshots of 1970s NYC by way of a tight-rope walker perched between the Twin Towers and heroin-hooked prostitutes in the Bronx 'hood, tasty nibbles and red wine laced with tales of husbands dripping paint on silk Turkish rugs, glimpses into the China when girls had their feet bound, cupcakes in a West Loop loft, Venetian affairs, sighs about the work week, hugs.
It's sometimes a battle between the sexes with Book Club vs. Alcohol Club, but I have a warm and fuzzy feeling knowing that the girls and guys closest to me can maintain our separate interests and activities, while coming together at the end of the night. I might be in Book Club – and married – but that sure doesn't mean I don't have fun.
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