Reader, I have a confession to make. I have cheated — not on my diet, not on my taxes, not on my husband.

I could rationalize why I strayed. Maybe it was the result of a mid-life crisis, maybe it was the desire to do something new, or maybe it was the allure of doing it with strangers.

On some level, all of these are true, but they are still only excuses. So, while it is somewhat heartless to expose my disloyalty on such a public level, guilt has driven me to it. Ladies of my book club, I confess, I have been unfaithful. I have sought laughter, intellectual stimulation and delicious food in the company of other readers.

I realize having two affairs of the heart is excessive, maybe this lack of control is the result of a deep-seated addiction that began in childhood. My father used to call me a cellar toad. He never understood the appeal of being curled up on the couch for hours, reading a book in our basement rec room on a hot summer day.

The room was lined with books, mostly volumes of Reader’s Digest condensed classics. It was a quiet space, usually only occupied by my dog and me. The green itchy ’70s couch was the only annoyance. By the end of the reading session, my legs would be covered with red welts where they rested on unforgiving fabric, but my mind would be adrift in a thousand different storylines. My childhood reading was always such a solitary pastime, that it is ironic that it has become the basis of my social outings and the root of my infidelity.

Like Mary McGregor in her ’70s love song, I’m torn between two lovers. My first group is private, composed of old friends and people of similar ages and backgrounds. There is comfort there as we dish about our lives, and we know each other’s stories. The choice of titles is somewhat random and diplomatic. We can dish out criticisms with all the honesty of old married couples. While I always look forward to these book nights, there isn’t any nervous anticipation.

The other group is public and new. It has stolen my heart, (as well as my stomach, because it is held at Early Dawn Confections). The first meetings held the romance of a first date, as virtual strangers tried to figure out their roles. A few people are acquainted with each other, but not many. Because of this, conversations are light and flirty. An off-hand comment becomes a shared joke, and a bit of silly speculation is seized on and followed. The books are assigned, but there is a frisson in the air as we spontaneously recommend books to each other.

It may be wrong, but I want both in my life. I’ll admit my guilt was assuaged when a fellow bibliophile spicily admitted that this was her third book club of the week. This created quite a stir, but as she observed each club was completely different. Suddenly, my wanderings didn’t seem so lascivious. Maybe it’s time to aspire for more. But, with so many choices, how do I choose? Maybe it’s time to treat the various book club options as a dating app.

So, in researching my future as a book club trollop, I consider what else is out there. My students suggest a lie-in-bed Sunday morning book club, where everyone hangs out under the covers and zooms in to talk. Of course, these teens get up at noon. At my age, I am far too impatient to lie around. Swipe left.

How about groups where everyone shows up as a character? Even for someone who loves dressing up that seems like a lot of pressure. Sometimes I binge-read late into book club eve, so I can finish on time. I imagine madly creating a costume at four in the morning. This would not be a club for procrastinators, and I’m a procrastinator. Swipe left.

Road trip book clubs travel to the locations they’ve read about. Of course, these must be carefully curated, both in location and in participants. Then there is the cost factor. For that reason alone, I can see where this would quickly evolve into an Adirondack-only group. While I love living here, a steady diet of deep woods tales would get boring. Swipe left.

Walking book groups, silent book groups, mystery book groups all hold appeal, but the truth is … I’m not cut out for a duplicitous lifestyle. I am now publicly part of a book throuple, that’s enough for me.

In the words of Louisa May Alcott, “Good books like good friends are few and chosen; the more select, the more enjoyable.”