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My Octogenarian Book Club

I run a book club at the library where I work.

It consists of myself, a twenty-five year old man, and a small group of ladies who are all fifty or above.

To say that I have fun running this group would be a huge underestimate. I look forward to our meeting every month the way some people might look forward to receiving tax returns.

Part of the reason for this is because I rarely take the age of the club's members into consideration when I pick what we're reading.

Sidenote: Let's be honest. I totally do the Oprah voice every month when I announce the book and hold it up like there's a camera there.

"This month we're reading CUTTTTING FOR STOOOOOOONNNEE!"

Except rather than giving out copies, I put their names on hold so they can get the books from different libraries.

Admittedly, it's not as flashy.

I have to hand it to them, my ladies are pretty hip.

When I had them read one of my favorite trashy novels--"A Density of Souls" by Christopher Rice, I was a little concerned about the fact that there's, you know, pages upon pages of gay sex in the book.

The response?

One of the women, who is currently approaching ninety, had bookmarked all the sex scenes and gleefully told me the book was one of the most "interestingly erotic things she's ever read."

I immediately jumped out the window.

Regardless, the moment was priceless.

This month we're celebrating J.D. Salinger by reading "Franny and Zooey." Last month we read Dan Chaon's "Await Your Reply."

The ladies tease me about my choices, because they would prefer Nora Roberts, and I give them David Foster Wallace.

Still, they dutifully read the books and show up every month.

This month, the "Density of Souls" fan called to tell me she couldn't come anymore because her eyesight isn't good and she really shouldn't be driving.

(I couldn't believe she still drives. I wanted to ask her if she knew anything about who dented my car right before our last meeting.)

She expressed her dismay that she couldn't attend anymore meetings. I told her that I would miss her, and I will. She made me realize that once you've lived that long, books about Australian penal colonies and terminally ill Jewish girls are all just par for the course.

It gave me hope.

"But Kevin," she said, "Before I let you go. Could I ask you one favor."

Anything, I said.

"Could you find a way to get me a copy of that 'Density' book. I'd like to reread it."

Take that, Oprah.

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