It always happens during the night, and I don’t actually feel any different when I wake up. When I open my eyes, the ceiling looks the same, with the same morning blurriness. The sheets feel the same, and whisper the same entreaties to just reset the alarm and enjoy their soft embrace a little longer.

It’s only when I swing my legs over the side of the bed that the realization hits. My feet don’t reach the floor. I’ve shrunk again.

Damn.

It’s not the worst crisis in the world. Many people have heavier crosses to bear. It doesn’t last very long. By early afternoon, or dinner time at the latest, I’m usually back to full altitude and perspective, looking down on about 80 percent of the population.

But I’ve got to tell you, it’s a real pain in the ass. I get by okay, but every little thing is harder. I’ve got my condo arranged just the way I like it, and it’s all set up for a robust man standing a shade over six feet.

When I shrink, I lose roughly a foot and a half, and stand about the height of an 8 year-old boy. You can imagine how that throws a monkey wrench into my plans for the day. I still have to shave, but need to climb on a step stool to see myself in the mirror. I can forget about reaching the MultiGrain Cheerios on the top shelf in the pantry, so I just go straight to the eggs. On the subway to the office, I can feel people staring at the Tiny Man, as I stand gripping the pole, avoiding strangers’ eyes.

I never know when it’s going to happen, or what triggers it. Or why it started, for God’s sake! I’ve kept a log, and while there’s no apparent pattern, I seem to shrink about a half dozen times per year.

The first morning I woke up small, I totally freaked out. Panicked. Thought about calling an ambulance, but… it’s not like I was dying or anything. So I put on shorts (which came halfway down my shins), cinched them tight with a military belt, and found my smallest running shirt, in which I was still left swimming. Then I called my doctor’s service and got the name and number for an internist with an office near Beth Israel. Punched in the digits and argued with the receptionist. Was it an emergency? Hell, yes!

A brief cab ride later, the internist simply would not believe my story until I showed her my driver’s license, which proved I’m normally a tall man, not a small man. She had the nurse take my blood pressure and weigh me (72 lbs!), she looked in my throat and ears, listened to my heart and lungs – and pronounced me perfectly healthy and fit. Then she grinned a little oddly and said she was diagnosing me with an acute case of “shortness”. I didn’t find that very funny.

She apologized, shrugged, and said she could send me for x-rays, a CT an MRI or a PET scan, but there was little useful she could suggest. She was stumped. Never heard of anything like this. So I went home completely unedified.

I poured myself some orange juice, turned on CNN and sat on the sofa feeling upset and depressed. Realized I’d better report in and cancel the conference room lunch meeting with my research staff. Spoke to my secretary and lied that I wasn’t feeling well. She was more than a little curious, because I very seldom get sick. Even then, I tend to head to work and generously share my little bugs with my employees.

But Cynthia was really nice about it, cleared my schedule for the day, and offered to pick me up some chicken soup from my favorite deli. I hurriedly nixed that, but thanked her for the kind thought. Cynthia’s a real sweetheart and an excellent assistant. Really on the ball.

I remembered that I’d barked at her the day before, because she’d had to leave early for her son’s soccer game, and I had two patent attorneys who worked for a client coming in for an end of day meeting. Which meant I’d have to take care of the coffee and cookies myself. And that was about as big a deal as it sounds. But I’d been a little nervous, because I hadn’t reviewed the briefing materials in advance. And I’m always more centered when Cynthia’s around. Anyway, I’d snuck a barb into my words when Cynthia had left. I guessed that was pretty shitty. So, no to the chicken soup, but I apologized for being a jerk, and invited her to lunch at the end of the week. She said cheerfully that lunch would be great, and we hung up. I sat on my sofa and thought gloomy thoughts about being small.

That first time was just over two years ago. I was really shaken, but fortunately, by the time I ordered a pizza for dinner, I had gradually stretched back to my usual dimensions. According to my log, it’s happened 13 times in total. I still don’t know what causes me to shrink every now and then, and the doctors have been little help. We’ve ruled out things I’ve eaten as a cause. I don’t use any dangerous drugs, prescription, non-prescription or recreational. As far as I know, I haven’t irritated any witches.

And today’s shrink looks to be one of the longer ones. As I write, it’s mid-afternoon, and I’m still bantam-sized. I couldn’t face the commute and the office, so I took a day off.  I’m feeling pretty down. I was having a bad week anyway. It never rains but it pours, you know? I had a fight on the phone with Elizabeth yesterday.

She was bugging me again about when I’m coming to London next. I said soon, but I’m busy, alright? She said I’m always busy, and I’m probably just making excuses, and am I seeing someone in New York? Because I should tell her. I said no, for Christ’s sake, don’t be paranoid, we’ve always been honest with each other. I have responsibilities, and I can’t go flying off to Albion every time she wants to fucking play house for a couple weeks. And then she made a funny sound and hung up.

Geez.

Well, this is just great.

I don’t know.

What time is it in England again?

Maybe I should just call her. What’s the name of that flower shop around the corner from her place? Maeve’s? They could probably get something nice to her in the morning.

Or I suppose I could write her a nice letter. Where’s my fountain pen?

You know what? I’ll just call her. And then I’ll email the flower shop. And then I’ll write her a letter.

I need something to distract me, anyway. I’m sick of thinking about being small.

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