“That’s the week from hell!” he exclaimed, not completely in jest.

He was, of course, remembering the stress, the angst, the pressure to get it just right, that comes upon and into the home, the sense of tension so oppressively pervasive that even begins before “that week.”

At the center of this psychological maelstrom is the family’s matriarch. The boss. The wife. The momma.

And just what is it, what event, that brings with it such all-encompassing concern and consternation?

Come on, now. Think. You know.

Well, you know, that is, if your wife, or mother when you were growing up, went through (along with the family) such a week from h- – -.

For those of you who don’t have a memory reference to help you, then I’ll tell you. It’s ‘Book Club’ week, baby!

That’s right. Book Club.

That venerable institution (endured by the hostess) that is ubiquitously a part of the fabric of upper-middle and upper-class America.

When the hostess has “that” event in her own home, the stakes are higher and the pressure even greater. The significance of a national election, natural disaster, championship athletic contest, pales in comparison. Book Club week is the apogee of angst.

Oh. I forgot to mention something to you. I’ve been told that some of those fine ladies in some of those clubs actually read the books. Seriously.

In the interest of a more egalitarian approach to membership, I have a bold suggestion: Invite some men to join. Eliminate the defacto gender bias.

I mean, why should only the ladies “enjoy” (even if only once a year) the responsibility of the “week from hell!”

Note — This columnist hopes readers recognize this was written (sort of) tongue-in-cheek, and that he hopes it isn’t foot-in-mouth. And no, his First Wife isn’t a member of a book club. And yes, book clubs really are fine institutions.