Charlotte Henry Webb I wasn’t sure why I’d come to the Womyn’s Book Club at the Presidio Library; I’d just come. Maybe chalk it up to boredom—too much time spent at home alone watching T.V., not enough socializing or pursuing my dreams. My reclusion of late had grown into a real burden. That’s what the internet said, what my therapist said, what my mom said. Prozac didn’t have me feeling much better, and on top of it all it was making me fat. Or at least I felt fat. So, there I sat, feeling fat, at my first book club in a small conference room at the neighborhood library, eyes focused on the polished black and white checkerboard tiles. Something different, like the doctor ordered. When I’d come into the cramped conference room I’d smiled appropriately (not too friendly, not too curt) to each of the women who sat chatting with one another, but I didn’t speak, picking a plastic chair in the circle with no one on either side. I didn’t want to just thrust mys...