I am in a book club. I love being in a book club because I love to read. Well, I love to read good books. Ok, I love to read good fiction books. I love to read good, fiction books that aren’t so intellectual that they make my brain hurt. See, for me, the purpose of reading a good book is to take a break from reality. An escape so to speak. When I am reading a good book, I lose track of everything else.  I love getting lost in the story, getting to know the characters as if they are real. This is something that drives my husband crazy. I will start telling him about a book I am reading, describing in detail what is happening, or what someone is going through. He will be listening intently at first…and then, it will dawn on him. “Wait..Is this true?” He will ask. No, it’s in my book. “Then… why would I care?” He just doesn’t get it. This brings me to book club. A group of women who get it. We read the same book. We get to know the same characters. We feel their pain, we laugh with them, cry with them, sometimes yell at them. Then we get together and spend several hours discussing how the book made us feel. Whether or not the author did a good job. Who relates to which character. And we eat. We always eat. Sometimes if we all agree that the book was a flop, we spend our time discussing life instead of the book. I really enjoy that too. We then pick a new book, and hope for the best. My problem lately though is this. It is getting to the point where I have NOT...