I’m not the world’s biggest fan of Halloween. I know that in certain circles that makes me the un-costumed version of the devil, but I’m just not. I don’t hate it, per se, I just don’t go all out. I have three basic reasons:
1- I am easily frightened. People have little RIP tombstones littering their front yard and a skull on their doorstep, and I begin contemplating my own mortality. People have a scarecrow with a Freddy Kruger mask just chilling in their flower beds, and I spend the next three or four nights either lying awake in my bedroom with all of the lights on, trying to convince my uninterested dog to stay awake with me while Chris sleeps, or popping sleep aids like TicTacs to relax my oversensitive imagination. I do not like scary costumes AT ALL, and I think masks are just disgusting in general. Gory makeup is not my bag, and seeing an axe sticking out of someone’s back makes me tear up with fear. Also, people seem to think that giant spiders are acceptable at this time of year, and I could not disagree more. Until Halloween decor changes from fright and gore to nothing but Jack o’ lanterns and cute little Casper-style ghosts, I am going to spend most of October being alarmed.
2- Halloween costumes have gotten very bad in my age group. When other women ask me what I’m going to be for Halloween, I’m very tempted to respond, “I’m going as a slut. I’m assuming you are also going as a slut. The question is really what VARIETY of slut we’ll be going as. Will you be a devil slut? A nurse slut? A freaking slut bumblebee? Tell me. A slutty ladybug? A slutty cat? A slutty scarecrow? The options are limitless.” (in case you were wondering, this year I will be an an angel slut, because I found a really cute BCBG white dress that I wanted to buy, and have very few occasions in my life where a pure white dress will be appropriate). I remember the first costume I ever saw that was “sexy” instead of costumy. In third grade, my mom helped me make a costume that was supposed to be a Graduate of Hershey College. I had a little graduation gown and cap, and a diploma around my neck that had crumpled Hershey wrappers glued to it. I was incredibly proud of my costume, mostly because I really, really loved Hershey chocolate. But before lunch, at the water fountain, Allyson Wierda made fun of my costume for being childish. She was wearing a scandalous little pirate outfit, which in retrospect was probably not the most appropriate outfit for a third grader to wear. I was ashamed, and from that year forward, I tried to come up with more grown-up costume ideas.
Note: it is pointless to wear anything other than face paint for Halloween in Colorado, because it invariably snows on Halloween, and your parents make you wear a snowsuit and mittens and a hat over any potential costume.
Second Note: If Allyson Wierda ever reads this, I’m sure you’ve turned out to be a lovely, non-scandalous adult. No hard feelings. Although you pretty much did ruin pirates for me.
3- All of the children who come to our door are greedy little snot factories. Babies in costumes are ADORABLE. Toddlers in costumes are ALSO ADORABLE, provided their parents put them in something cute–nobody wants to see a toddler in stained Carhartts and a George W. Bush mask. But children over the age of 8 end up just being greedy and taking handfuls upon handfuls of candy that I very specifically purchased for myself in hopes that we’d have very few trick-or-treaters. Case in point; last year I bought a whole enormous bag of miniature Twix bars. I figured we’d hand out one or two, and then I’d have an excuse to plow through the rest of the bag. INCORRECT. Instead I had fat twelve-year-olds grabbing 10 or 20 at a time, leaving me with a grand total of zero Twix bars, and also forcing me to scramble around my house trying to find extra candy so that we’d not have to turn any trick-or-treaters away. Hell hath no fury like a scorned trick-or-treater. The last several children got Ricola cough drops for Halloween. To your health, children, to your health.
Note: I trick-or-treated until I was 21. Then I went to bars. I am aware of my hypocrisy.
Second Note: One year (age 22 maybe?) I went to the bars as slutty Catwoman (is there another kind?). I had one of those little whip-like cat toys as part of my costume. There was this EXTRA slutty girl wearing a skirt that was clearly designed for a preschooler and no underpants, and she was rubbing against all the boys–even the ones who had been spoken for. Three drinks in I lost my temper and thwacked her in the cooter with my cat toy/ whip. I turned around and kept dancing before she could visually figure out who or what had hit her babymaker. I am simultaneously proud and ashamed of this achievement.
Third note: Mostly proud.