I planned it most carefully.
I was at the dining room table, moving only the choicest of items from my purse to my fanny-pack: Train ticket? Check. Metro-card? Check. Asthma inhaler? Hand sanitizer? Cash? Check, check, check — but paper money, not coins, they’d only weigh me down.
What was I preparing for, a South Polar expedition? Close. It was this year’s Women’s March in New York City.
I never made it to any of the marches against the Vietnam War when I was in high school, and I couldn’t make it to The Big One in D.C., last year.
So a mixture of guilt and curiosity propelled me to try this one, closer to home, last weekend.
But I faced the age-old dilemma of all wagon-masters: having everything you need to be self-sufficient, versus keeping down the weight of the load.
I knew — from extensive observation of my nephew playing Oregon Trail — that every item I took had to be worth its weight in life-sustaining properties — except the hand-sanitizer, of course, whose entire purpose was killing life (the microbial kind), instead.
I also needed room for snacks, being warned by my ever-loving husband that my temperament does not improve when I am hungry.
What I did not need was any kind of beverage. No water; no orange juice; not even a morning coffee.
A veteran of last year’s march warned me, “Do not let any liquid pass your lips, because even if there are porta-potties, you won’t want to use them.” (There were none.) Accordingly, I began my dehydration program the night before.
Carefully equipped, I actually made it to Central Park West in time to help fill up the giant “pen” that was Central Park West, from Columbus Circle on up.
My friends and I stood around waiting, and waiting, and waiting, only to finally be subjected to a seemingly endless roster of speakers.
It turns out, there are very few people in the world who can remain interesting beyond the second sentence. There’s “Hello, New York!” and “You are all amazing people for being here today.”
After that, I can’t help remembering the dictum: “If you want to be seen, stand up; if you want to be heard, speak up; if you want to be fondly remembered, shut up.”
My favorite speaker of the day was Sen. Kirsten Gillibrand —mainly because, thanks to the government shut-down, she was trapped in Washington, D.C. and couldn’t come speak to us at all.
I began to hallucinate — what was the first thing I would do, when I finally got home? Would I drink a giant glass of ice water? Or take a hot bath? On second thought, I might not have the strength to get out of a tub; I’d better just crawl into bed.
Finally, we were released from our giant holding pen and began tromping our way south, along Central Park South and 6th Avenue, to Bryant Park.
This is the point at which I remembered why I never do things like this: I am not a marcher. I am barely a walker. It has been borne in on me, over decades of sight-seeing and college-visit trips, that my natural pace is slower than a snail’s.
I always figured it was easier for other people to slow down than for me to speed up, especially in places where hills are involved (I am looking at you, Colgate and Hamilton colleges).
But alas, my powers of persuasion were as nothing against 120,000 women marching down the center of mid-town.
I rapidly fell behind. I even had a buddy, a friend who’d made it her mission to not lose sight of me — but her job got harder and harder, and sticking with me was pulling her away from the group.
Finally, I did what any altruist would. “Save yourself!” I shouted to her. “I’m bailing out!” I begged every policeman along the route to let me out — and one finally did — and like a modern day Rosie Ruiz, I took the subway to the finish line, and then home.
I know my friend made it home, too, from her Instagram of her first glass of water once she got there.
So that was my first march — and my last one. Thank goodness I can check that off my bucket list. Just in time to drink the whole bucket.
