Empowerment can mean forgoing hors d'oeuvres

By Debbie Farmer

When my daughter came home from her Girl Scout meeting she handed me a form 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 for my daughter. 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. When she stocked her backpack with emergency supplies and bottled water, I filled my purse with toothpicks and a roll of breath mints.

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 and I looked forward to the catered rest stop. I pictured waiters dressed in sweats and tennis shoes carrying trays of international cuisine while classical music played softly in the background. I sped up, hoping there would be enough lounge chairs left when we got there.

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, "Is this the first rest stop? 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. What if I sat down on the curb to wait for my daughter to get help, fell asleep and rolled into the gutter before the rescue party could find me?

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 tree 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. At 9 kilometers, I could make out colored flags along the horizon. I hoped it was either the finishing line or the grand opening of a fast food restaurant.

"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.

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Debbie Farmer can be contacted at debbie@ecis.com.

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