 |
|
|
|
|
Empowerment may mean forgoing hors d'oeuvres
By Debbie Farmer
When my daughter came home from her Girl Scout meeting she handed me a form with information about a 10 kilometer walk-a-thon to raise money for a worthy cause.
"Can we do it, Mom?" she asked hopefully. "I'll earn my community service patch."
I thought for a moment. It would probably be easier than selling boxes of cookies, and it would be a good experience. Also, the fine print along the bottom of the note said, "Fully catered rest stops will be provided at frequent intervals along the route." I pictured my daughter and myself sharing quality time together, raising money for a good cause, while being served gourmet food as we sat in lounge chairs sipping cool drinks underneath shade umbrellas.
"Of course," I said.
We wanted to be in top shape, so a week before the marathon my daughter and I trained for the walk. While she practiced stretching exercises and increasing her stamina, I practiced ordering hors d'oeuvres in French.
The next morning, when we reached the registration line, I handed the attendant our form.
"I'm so excited to be able to raise money for a good cause," I said.
She nodded knowingly. "The first rest stop is after the 3k marker," she said. "Good luck."
The first few kilometers passed without much effort since I had practiced running from my children while talking on the phone. But, by the third kilometer, my feet started to hurt. I pictured waiters carrying trays of international cuisine. I sped up, hoping there would be enough lounge chairs.
When we finally reached it there was nothing but a man wearing an official-looking vest handing out water in paper cups.
"Excuse me," I said, "Where are all the waiters--and the catered cuisine and music?" The man looked confused. "Food is served at the 7 kilometer mark and the finishing line," he said. Then he handed me a cup of water.
I popped a breath mint in my mouth and figured I could hold out until then. My daughter and I sat down on the sidewalk and drank our water.
As soon as we continued to walk ,my stomach began to growl and I finished off the roll of breath mints. I wondered what would happen if I couldn't make it.
I forced myself to keep walking. When we finally reached the catered meal at the next rest stop, I hurried to the table to order my food.
"Chicken teriyaki over rice with vegetables in soy sauce," I said.
The attendant nodded and handed me a plate containing one fat-free sugarless cookie, and two dry, chalk-flavored, diabetic energy bars with the texture of bark.
"Isn't this fun, Mommy?" my daughter said gnawing on her cookie.
We resumed the walk after we ate our snack. Around 8 kilometers I began seeing mirages of drive-through windows in the distance.
"We're almost there!" my daughter cried as she ran toward the flags. When I finally caught up she threw her arms around me. "We did it, Mom!" The attendants gave us a high five and handed us each a half of a banana.
When I saw how proud my daughter looked, I realized taking part in a walk-a-thon was about more than eating catered food and raising money for a good cause. It had increased her confidence and raised her self-esteem. As we sat down to eat our bananas I knew, however briefly, that we had become invincible, empowered women.
I just wondered how we were going to get back to the car.
|
|
|
|
Campbell, California
