Just another middle-aged groupie

Yes, it’s true: I am a middle-aged groupie. By this I don’t mean
that I wear black spandex pants and skin tight concert T-shirts and
sneak backstage at Rolling Stones concerts to have all night
parties with Keith Richard. No. No. No. I mean the OTHER kind of
groupie.
Yes, it’s true: I am a middle-aged groupie. By this I don’t mean that I wear black spandex pants and skin tight concert T-shirts and sneak backstage at Rolling Stones concerts to have all night parties with Keith Richard. No. No. No. I mean the OTHER kind of groupie.

Let me explain. As of today I belong to 11 clubs. Twelve, if you count the grocery store club card which everyone knows isn’t really a “club” per say, but merely a sneaky way of keeping track of how many boxes of juju bees and frozen pizzas you buy each week. But getting back to my point …

The funny thing is that way back in high school I was not what anyone would call the Club Type. I was the sort of person who listened to loud rock music and went out of their way to NOT join any group. I refused to join the French club and openly mocked the cooking and sewing clubs.

In my defense, I never meant for things to get so out of hand. I mean, it all seemed innocent enough. First the mother’s club lured me in with promises of stroller walks and weekly playgroups. Then along came the book club with its monthly potluck brunches and lively conversations. Soon after that I joined a movie club and then the scrapbooking club. Before I knew it, I added a writing group, a weight-loss group, a bicycle club, a bunco group – which is a dice game, believe it or not, that moms and women in general tend to love – and a music fan club. Or two. Yes, I’m a club junkie.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. In fact, I’m a big advocate of clubs. Not because I enjoy exclusivity, mind you, but because if you look hard enough, you can find one for just about any interest no matter how bizarre it may be. Take, for instance, the Rubber Band Shooting Association. This group has about 400 members, all of whom have a liking for shooting elastic bands from their handmade guns. Or (and I swear this is true) the Panty hose Fetish Club whose 100 members take great pride in wearing full body suits covering them from head to toe.

The other nice thing about clubs is that you get to buy lots of stuff that you’d never normally buy, under the guise of “supplies.” Like, say, my new two hundred dollar luggage case that I need to hold all of my scrapbooking materials and the pair of professional running shoes for my exercise club. Not to mention a new bike.

Shallow? Maybe. But if you think that’s bad my friend Julie, a person who glues on buttons, just joined the quilting club not because she wants to learn to sew, mind you, but because each year the club rents out a condo in Lake Tahoe for the weekend.

Ironically enough, the big problem with belonging to so many clubs is that I’m so busy I hardly have time to go to any of the meetings.

So why don’t I just cut back, you ask? Well, truth be told, a part of me likes to stand in the sandbox at the park, look at my watch, and say in my best I-have-a-life-outside-of-my-children voice, “Oh, my! I’ve got to run! It’s almost time for my Astronomical League Observing Club!”

Plus, we all know that clubs are a way of belonging. And, hey, what can be more important than feeling connected to other people in this era of impersonal electronic communication?

Now if only there was a club for that.

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