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Well, just me, that is. Jon tagged along so I could get my shot. He pointed out the National Guardsmen lining the entrances and exits. It was decidedly dystopian, post-apocalyptic. Indians know all too well the shapes and economics of disaster, the apocalypses and pandemics. We observe them within our communities like bank holidays. Like Martin Luther King Jr. I filled out my little card, and they called my name.
Jon waited near the entrance as I was led through the casino auditorium where cordoned-off canopies edged up against the walls. In the Before Times, I visited a butterfly sanctuary in Kansas and was transfixed with the newly born monarchs thlapp-thlapping their wings.
The sound of transformation. I rolled up my sleeve and waited for the health care worker to administer my shot. It was quick. The Indian Health Service and tribes across the country were the first to carry out vaccinations. He was a short, balding white guy with round glasses. The tone in his voice noted my crankiness.
My dreams that night were fitful and chaotic.
Teeth cracked and fell out of my mouth. Keys refused to work in locks and crumbled to dust. What was the age posted on roller coasters in Japan? Please scream inside your heart. The next morning, I took a shower and as I was getting dressed. I noticed my pants were really loose and baggy. I wore these pants yesterday. Look at me!
The pants, wide-legged, cotton khakis, were useless, clown-sized pants in need of suspenders. The legs pooled around my ankles. I tried one pair after another from my closet, but nothing would work. I finally threw on a pair of cheap flip-flops so I could make my appointment. The pair of us stuck in our small apartment, quarantined, working remotely. The sense of distance operated as a coping mechanism. Are humans really meant to be glued at the hip around the clock?
You want to play the blame game now? Had other people shrunk? I rolled over to the edge of the bed, but when I looked at how far down the floor was, I got dizzy. I was the size of a football. Jon carried me into the bathroom and helped me pee, and then he got me a drink of water — a small pill bottle sufficed as a cup. Jon dressed me in a red jumper and some kind of yellow pants. I was exhausted, and I dropped off to sleep immediately. In my dream, I waited at the tribal casino for my shot. Jon Shrinking women stories me what a CDIB was.
Just like the monarch butterflies. Just like the murder hornets at the start of the pandemic. Just like the cicadas a year later — the cicadas, which hibernated underground for 17 years and after their resurrection filled the air with nonstop, ear-splitting screaming. For sex. It was an adjustment, for sure. The silver lining, though? Along with avoiding the potential hazards, we also managed to squash a lot of our yearslong, accumulated resentments. It turned out a lot of crap gets forgiven when you sleep on cotton batting inside an old cigar box.
Compromises get made. Truces made. He said he was worried that one day I might completely disappear, but honestly? Reed, maybe. Black oxfords. He brought them home and surprised me with them. It had been so long since I had anything new, so naturally I was excited. They were almost a perfect fit. Give directly to The Spokesman-Review's Northwest Passages community forums series -- which helps to offset the costs of several reporter and editor positions at Shrinking women stories newspaper -- by using the easy options below.
Gifts processed in this system are not tax deductible, but are predominately used to help meet the local financial requirements needed to receive national matching-grant funds. One of the most unpleasant circumstances you may ever face is having a poor credit score. The butterfly des in the carpet seemed to rise up in 3D, a trick of the eye. A few hours later, my arm was sore, and I felt a little wonky, but mostly just cranky. That night, Jon was looming over me in bed.
You woke me up! Jon switched on the light. Oh, honey, oh God, look at yourself! Yeah, what the hell, Crystal! Look how tiny your feet are! And then, they were all gone. The Spokesman-Review Newspaper Local journalism is essential. up. Top stories in Books.Shrinking women stories
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