About five years ago, I started a book club - not to read books, necessarily, but just to get out of the house. My husband and I had recently welcomed our first little baby into the world and while she was sweet and wonderful and perfect, I realized after a couple of months that I wasn't doing much of anything else. At all.
I didn't want that to change too much, but having one night a month where I was forced to be an adult sounded pretty good. So I called a few friends, who called a few more friends and the rest is history. We've been going strong for a long time now. We have some new members, some original members and some who come and go as they please. Some of us even read the book.
We theme out the food, open a bottle or two of wine and have a good time. In fact, my smarty pants husband calls it Wine Club.
This past Thursday was my turn to host. Usually, when we have the girls over, Jim will pour drinks and act as host, or disappear upstairs with his laptop. Well, this last time, he stayed downstairs to watch the basketball game - and listen, as it turns out.
Evidently, we had lots of fun - and opinions (stronger opinions as the night grew late. He even timed our book discussion (the jerk) - 17 minutes. His question was: is that what book club is about?
Books are about enjoying ourselves and discovering something new, whether that is between the pages - or not. For us, it's a common experience that inspires themed foods for the night, and plenty of side discussions. It's an excuse to get busy people together. It's how we make time for each other each a month.
So should we take it more seriously? Heck, no. Life, like books, needs to be savored.