Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 52957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 265(@200wpm)___ 212(@250wpm)___ 177(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 265(@200wpm)___ 212(@250wpm)___ 177(@300wpm)
The intersecting hallways threw me off for a minute, and I wandered around before I finally found the elevator. Normally, I would have checked for an app on my phone with the layout, but phones weren’t allowed at Spirit Week events. Everyone had been given an emergency number to give out to their loved ones, so if there was a problem, the staff could contact the guest right away.
Even knowing this, I felt strangely bereft without my phone and had to laugh at myself. Maybe unplugging a bit from the world would be beneficial. I certainly hoped so, because all I could think about was if I should go back to my room and check my email.
Instead of giving into my paranoia, I hit the button for the elevator once I found it.
A quick ride down to the main floor, ten minutes of wandering, and three minutes of being escorted by a nice staff member later and I finally found it.
The bright, energetic beat of 80s pop music came from behind the closed door. Made of smooth, polished chestnut planks, the door had no handle. I waved my hand over the panel and smiled as it slid open on silent hinges. Cool technology out here in the middle of nowhere. Then again, Rawhide was known for keeping up with the times and changing when needed. Probably one of the reasons they were still going strong after all these years.
Balloons in pastel shades hung from the vaulted ceiling with long, glittery silver ribbons dangling from them above a crowd of mostly women with a couple dozen men scattered about. The large space had ample room for the crowd of people in all their pajama glory. Whoever had designed the party knew their lighting. Instead of glaring overheads, warm and almost golden light gleamed softly from a multitude of sources. From chandeliers to wall sconces, intricate lighting created little pockets of shadows and intimacy among the more brightly lit play areas.
To my left, a group of women all threw their arms in the air as they sang karaoke along with whatever song was playing. I didn’t recognize it, but they obviously loved it. Pausing for a moment, I applauded along with everyone else as the song ended and the women all took giggling bows.
Turning away, I scanned around, trying to decide what I wanted to do.
A few things caught my eye, then my heart came to a stop before thumping extra hard.
There, past a grouping of women doing knitting together, against the wall and sectioned off by tall screens, stood fashion-doll heaven.
Row after row of dolls lined one wall, all in their nude plastic glory. In the center stood a massive rack of doll clothing. And I mean massive. There had to be close to ten thousand outfit pieces arranged from formal to informal. On the wall to the right, displayed in precise rows, were shoes, accessories, and pets. I spied a fuzzy white dog and knew it had to be mine. One of the freebies for Spirit Week was a personalized doll from the Doll Diva, and this must be one of the pop up stands.
The woman who owned it stood off to the side, helping a woman wearing a pink onesie select a pair of sparkling doll shoes.
I would like to say I demurely made my way to the dolls, but that would be a lie. In the past few minutes I’d lost all sense of decorum, my inner teenager rising to the surface. Sometimes I felt like the only time I was able to truly live in the moment was when I was in my Middle persona. My therapist liked to remind me that my inner teenager and my adult self were one in the same, but sometimes it was hard to remember what it had been like to be young. To really put myself in a past mindset and remember a time when I’d been full of curiosity and hope.
Coming to a stop before the doll case, I gaped in wonder at all the options before me. You had the obvious traditional, mass-produced dolls. Limited-edition ones, and more than a few that had been obviously hand crafted. Every style and taste seemed to be accounted for, from mermaid to Miss America. I have no idea how long I’d been standing there, staring, before a velvety woman’s voice jarred me out of my trance.
Turning my head, I found a tall and lovely Black woman in a white prairie style nightgown gazing at the case. Her hair was held back from her high forehead by intricate braids with silver and gold beads at the ends. Stars made of diamonds dangled from her ears, and she had a gold septum piercing that sat just above the bow of her full lips.
An elegant beauty, until you looked at her feet and spied the fuzzy unicorn slippers.