Yesterday I hosted book club… at my place.
That may not sound earth-shattering, but you must understand that I used to revel in hosting friends for a variety of reasons. From my first Friendsgiving of 15+ people to Easter for 24, I’ve always loved cooking for the people in my life.
In my twenties, those gatherings generally involved people sitting on folding chairs with paper plates on their laps while my deaf Cocker Spaniel wandered around the room foraging for fallen food.
Brady was my first rescue, and one of the great loves of my life. He helped me grow up, and he made me a better, more loving human.
As time has gone by, most of my friends have moved out of small apartments into homes with yards, and eating dinner off of paper plates on their laps has become less appealing. I’ve been hesitant to host since I feel like I don’t have as much room as many of my friends.
Sure, I have proper plates and an adult dining room table now, but the real estate problem was a lingering issue for me. I got over myself, however, and invited my book club besties to my place.
We had such a lovely afternoon of snacks, heartfelt sharing, and engaging conversation!
George also helped me make my bed before my friends and their babies arrived.
I had to kick him off the bed to finish the job, but he’s so cute I forgave him for being useless at domestic chores.