A Thousand Sisters by Lisa Shannon Read Free Book Online Page A

choker, a collector’s item, apparently screams “hippie” in this Ann Taylor town. In any case, I don’t need to be told my story isn’t suited for a national magazine. I never dreamed it might be until Sumana mentioned it.
    Fortunately, Runner’s World and O, The Oprah Magazine —and later, Fitness magazine — disagree. Nine months after the meeting with Sumana, they all publish stories about me and the run, and the timing couldn’t be better. Congo legislation is stalled in committee in the House following a
unanimous pass in the Senate. It’s cosponsored by Senators Barack Obama and Sam Brownback. (You can’t get more opposite sides of the aisle than that!) But rumor has it the committee chair is holding it up so as to not aid Obama’s rising star. I head over to D.C.’s Union Station, a couple of blocks from Capitol Hill, and stock up on as many copies of O and Runner’s World as I can stuff into my bag, then I join the small constituency from Chicago, about six people total, for their self-proclaimed “Congo Lobby Days.” We lug the magazines up and down the halls of Congress, asking for support of the bill.
    When we talk with a couple of Republican staffers, I give them the magazines in an effort to prove there is a national, grassroots groundswell of support for Congo. They scan the articles. “A million dollars,” says one. “How much have you raised so far?”
    â€œFifty thousand,” I say, then quickly change the subject.
    Who knows if it helps, but a handful of Republican staffers promise to call to check the bill’s status, which will put pressure on the committee chair to pass it through for a floor vote. In a week, I will get an email from a legislative aide. The last statement in the Congressional Record, just prior to the unanimous passing of the bill, will be praise for Run for Congo Women and the way it has blossomed into a global effort to support the women of the DRC .
    Â 
    IF I SCORED POINTS IN D.C., I certainly haven’t scored any at home. I had imagined that my drop-everything-to-stop-a-war behavior would recharge a relationship that has had no space for the past five years . But my all-consuming volunteer work schedule and my Congo-first, business-second attitude have gotten old for Ted. I see his point—I have put our financial goals on hold. But I think I’ve earned some flexibility after putting in years of sixteen-hour workdays and months-long stretches without a day off.
    In any case, people have started to notice. Long after the event, my mom confesses that at the Portland run volunteers pulled her aside to report Ted’s visible disenchantment with me. It was in the air that day. After the run, he
went out for beers with a buddy while a neighbor drove me home. In my post- 30-mile stupor, I threw up out the window (much to the disgust of her teenage kids sitting next to me!) and spent the rest of the afternoon sprawled on the bathroom floor alone.
    At this point, there’s no getting around it. Ted’s icy silence speaks volumes. I’m in breach of contract. I’m not free to do my own thing until delivery of a French country home, a Ducati Supersport, and a new Rolex . Anything less is just selfish.
    The slow burn of betrayal is mutual. I’m desperate for us to try to work it out . But as our relationship descends into a series of seething, resentful fights, I find myself on the defensive, snapping, “I’m a human being, not a lifestyle.”
    On the June day that we were supposed to get married, I can’t help but feel ripped off. In an alternate universe, I would be in the Val d’Orcia, dancing under a string of lights in the courtyard of a medieval Tuscan inn, overlooking ancient olive groves.
    Ted asked me to marry him on New Year’s Day. We don’t believe in long engagements, so we set a June date, but in late March the Italian country inn