I know this comes as a complete shock, but I am not what you'd call a "joiner". I don't belong to any sort of association, club, organization, or guild. The only activity I do that involves the participation of others is a once-weekly mat Pilates class at the yoga studio downstairs — a class that usually consists of just me, the instructor, and one or two other people.

I have never been a big "communal" person, and I'm definitely not a "team player". A few years ago, when a diminutive "boss" relieved me of my obligation to work in his office, he cited as one of the reasons the fact that I was not a "team player". (I told him that I refused to play on a team that had such a lousy coach ... but that's another story for another day.)

When I was eight, I joined the Brownies. But of course the Brownies were wasted on me. Not only did I hate the other little girls, but I loathed, detested, abhorred, and otherwise hated the crafts. I didn't understand why anyone would want a tambourine made out of two flimsy paper plates filled with dry beans. I don't know what words I used back then to express that something fucking sucked, but I know I uttered them under my breath the entire time I was stitching those two paper plates together with colorful yarn.

I sucked at selling cookies. I dreaded going from door to door trying to sell those things. In fact, either I've repressed the memory completely or else I didn't do it at all, because I have no recollection of actually doing it. I'd like to think I managed to sell at least one box to the people who lived on either side of my house, but I really don't think I did. No, I earned the coveted Cookie Monster patch the only way I could: by having my father take them to the office and unload them on his co-workers.

So why did I join the Brownies at all?

Do you really have to ask?

For the uniform, of course! I mean, who could resist the traditional Brownie uniform? The brown dress, brown belt, ankle socks with the impish Brownie emblem on the turned-over cuff. The pins. The troop number patch. The ... the ... the ... beanie. Ahhh, that beanie!

How many hours of stomach pains and dread could have been avoided had I just confessed to my parents that all I wanted was the outfit? Yes, all I wanted was the outfit, to wear in the privacy of my own bedroom, where I could gaze admiringly at myself in the mirror. Alone!

You see, with me, it always comes down to the outfit. I don't hike (yes, your second shock of the day), but I have a cute pair of hiking boots that I used to wear with shorts and a denim shirt when I wanted to fancy myself the outdoorsy type. I don't ski, but I like to envision myself in a fabulous ensemble: form-fitting, somewhat shiny black pants/leggings; sleek black turtleneck; cobalt blue hoodless jacket with a silver-buckled belt cinching the waist; furry black headband pulling my hair off my rosy-cheeked face. (Boots? What boots? My leg is faux-broken and in a cast, and I am propped up in a cushy chair in the lodge, by a roaring fire, sipping hot chocolate and nibbling on chocolate chip cookies. I am also attended to by a stunning ski instructor who would rather adore me than be out "on the slopes".)

You know, right now, I think I'd join a ski club and endure a long bus-ride (!) up to some ski resort somewhere, just so I could wear that outfit. (I'll need boots to wear, though, pre-faux-leg-breaking!) When and where are we meeting?

P.S. Now I want a brownie. No, not this kind ... this kind! Care to join me?)