For someone who reads as much as I do, it might come as a surprise that I’ve only belonged to one book group – and that my tenure there lasted only through a few books. Not because of the “book” part (although the choices were not my thing) but because of the “group” thing – this particular group at least. Let’s just say that evenings with this book group made me just want to go home, get under the covers, and hide my head in, well, a good book.

As you may know, I moved out from New York to California for a boy I’d known since we were teenagers – B., that is – about 28 years ago. At that time, he was living in Santa Barbara and before I knew it – poof! – so was I. I worked from home at the time and didn’t really know anyone, so, in an effort to make me feel more comfortable, B. asked a friend of his if she would please invite me to join her book group. He thought it could be a good way for me to meet a circle of women who might become my friends.

A great idea, yes. In concept. But not so much in execution. Because the majority of the women in the group were either divorced; recently broken-up-with; tired of dating Peter Pans; disgusted with the singles scene; or up to here with married men who claimed to be unattached. To say that this group was comprised mostly of manhaters would be accurate. To say that they were not eager to welcome a new member who had just moved to town to be with the love of her life would be an understatement. And to say that I felt as if I didn’t fit in would be much more than just a feeling – it was a self-evident, set-in-stone fact.

The rules of book group were clear. Each month, one woman would select the book to be read and then host the group at her home for dinner to discuss it. As in many book groups, conversation about the book was superseded by conversations about everyone’s life – and, in this case, almost everyone’s negative takes on men. Every single meeting. No matter what the book was about. See where I’m going here?

It should be noted that the books chosen were not my thing either. While I don’t expect every book in book group to be my first choice (being exposed to other kinds of books is part of the point, right?), these books were as far from popular, everyone’s-talking-about-it fiction as you could get. It was truly a chore for me to try to get through every dreary, boring, heavy-on-the-pseudointellectualism but light-on-the-enjoyment tome (and tomes they were) each month. But, being the new girl in town, I did.

When it was my time to host, I deliberately chose an Oprah’s Book Club selection, figuring that it was a good bridge between intensity and bestseller-ness. No one frowned, and I thought I was in the clear, until I was informed of another rule of book club. No husbands or boyfriends were allowed to be at home on book club night. Which meant that a very annoyed B. needed to take himself to the movies that evening – and also meant that L.A. Confidential has become a touchy subject in our home (for me, not him – I’m annoyed that I didn’t get to go with him to see it). When I tried to get a reason out of anyone as to why men had to be banished, I was told that that was the rule. Period. End of discussion.

First rule of book club, apparently, was that you don’t talk about book club.

After about seven meetings (and months), I’d decided that I’d had enough. I appreciated B.’s effort and that of the person who had first invited me, but I just couldn’t do it anymore.

Me: “I’m going to skip book group tonight.”

He: “Uh, no. I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Me: “I do. I don’t enjoy it and it stresses me out.”

He: “I think you should give it another chance.”

Me: (getting a little impatient) “All I’ve been doing is giving it another chance. I’m done.”

He: (looking frustrated) “You can’t be done. You have to go tonight.”

Me: (realizing at that moment that I’d moved 3,000 miles across the country to spend my life with this man who now apparently thought he could tell me what to do) “I have to go? You don’t get to tell me what I have to do or don’t do. You’re not the boss of me.” (Okay, maybe a bit overdramatic.)

He: (sighing) I’d never tell you what you have to do. And of course I’m not the boss of you. It’s just …”

Me: “Just what?”

He: (covering his eyes, head in hand) “Just that they’re throwing you a little surprise bridal shower tonight because they know we’re getting married in a couple of weeks.”

Me: “Oh, s**t.” (after a minute) “Sorry.”

So, I went. And it was as awkward as I thought it would be. Well, actually, a bit more awkward. Because the woman who was hosting that evening was someone B. had gone on one date with years before. I knew about her but, apparently, she hadn’t known about me. When the other women asked whom I was marrying and I mentioned B.’s name, the hostess did a double take. And then a double shot. And then double-timed through the rest of the evening, hurrying us out shortly thereafter, book discussion be damned. (I guess she had had a thing for B. that had gone unreciprocated.) And did I mention how uncomfortable it was to receive best wishes on my upcoming marriage from a group of women who were mostly taking bets on how long it might last?

My exit was as gracious as I could make it. Because we were moving to LA shortly after my last appearance, I used that as the reason for my farewell, thanking each member in a handwritten note for her lovely shower gift and for having had me in the group. The response? Not a word. I guess I’d read them right after all.

But I do appreciate the time spent in that book group because it confirmed for me that I really do like to read on my own – what I want, when I want, how many pages I want or don’t want. It also confirmed what I sort of already knew – that spending time with people who don’t support you, who don’t boost your confidence, and who don’t empower you to feel good about yourself is time ill spent.

Turn the page.

©2024 Claudia Grossman