Once upon a time I loved Halloween. It wasn't just the candy that appealed to me (though I admit I did get quite excited at the prospect of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups that were banned from my house the other 364 days of the year). It was the act of donning a costume and raising myself to the rank of princess or president or embodying my fanciful heroes like Smurfette or Cinderella, or even crossing the boundaries of species and becoming a cat or a butterfly that I adored.
I would glow with pleasure when my neighbors would remark that I made a lovely queen or a terrifying grim reaper. I took great pride in my power of transformation. It was important to me that I was absolutely convincing as whatever it was I had chosen to personify for that one evening each year. "What was the point of dressing up if no one knew what you were," I would think to myself as I struggled to identify some of my little friends' costumes. Now I don't know if as I got older the people who were viewing my costumes got stupider and less astute, or if I simply have lost my gift for transformation, but Halloween has become pointless.
As far as I'm concerned this year served to hammer the final nail in the holiday's proverbial coffin.
I'm done with Halloween.
I suppose my problem with the whole Halloween thing began my first year when I was late in coming up with a costume. At the last minute I allowed myself to be persuaded to dress as a farmer. Disgusted with the prospect of donning such a trite and boring costume I was even more concerned with the possibility that I wouldn't participate in my favorite holiday, and so I put on some overalls and arranged my hair in the standard braids and forlornly faced the costumed masses. Everyone knew what I was, but I just didn't possess the same creative spark that I had come to pride myself on. I vowed to be a better impersonator in the future.
Second year I was ready for Oct. 31 in August. My choice in costume was at least moderately original and I was confident people would be able to identify me. On the big night, as my roommate was putting on the same overalls I had worn the year before, I bravely put on a red satin dress that fell below my knees and black high heels. My hair was fastened in a low bun, artfully decorated with a red flower. As we headed out the door I wrapped myself in a black fringed shall.
I was a flamenco dancer.
While I knew it would be too much to hope that people would look at me and think flamenco, I thought they'd at least get that I was in a costume derived from Spain.
As soon as we arrived at our first destination I knew I was in trouble. My friends were quickly identified as a farmer, Dorothy and a cat, while I was told that my prostitute costume was terrific.
"I am not a prostitute," I tersely informed everyone who saw fit to compliment me on my tarty look. "I'm a flamenco dancer."
"A what?" was the inevitable response.
"A tango dancer," I tried.
"Huh?"
"You know, one of those people who dance with roses in their mouths."
"How come you don't have a rose?"
Frustrated I would shrug and admit that I should have brought props if I harbored any hope of being recognized properly. Dejected and disappointed as the night came to a close, I resolved that next year I would go with an easily identifiable costume. I would combat the boredom of choosing a common character by having an incredibly authentic costume.
My roommate and I decided to be disco divas this year. Ransacking my mother's closet we found two dresses circa 1976 that were perfect. For the big night my roommate got pinned into a purple satin halter dress and applied white cream eye shadow all the way up to her eyebrows. I put on a horrible green number reminiscent of what Halston Bianca Jagger would wear out to Studio 54, and gave my hair wings à la Farrah Fawcett. Laughing, we congratulated each other on our realistic outfits and headed out for our evening.
We knew things might not go as well as we hoped when a group of guys stared confusedly at us.
"So girls, I've gotta ask," one of them asked. "Are you like princesses or something?"
"No," my roommate told him. "These dresses are from the '70s."
The boys said a collective "oh" and wished us a good night.
We chalked their inability to place us to a lack of cultural awareness and reaffirmed the greatness of our outfits. As we made the rounds at the party it became painfully obvious that more than just an elevator full of guys was unversed in the fashions of the late '70s.
As I stood surveying the room, I was approached by Zorro.
"Hey Snow White you wanna dance?"
Irritated I rolled my eyes, "I'm not Snow White."
"You're not?"
"When was the last time you saw Snow White in a halter dress with a 'Charlie's Angels' hairdo?" I icily asked.
"So you're not Snow White?"
I walked away in a huff realizing that I had been quite rude. Still, I was indignant. How could people not know that I was dressed for the disco? I was not a princess like the girl by the speakers who told me that I'd lost my crown seemed to think, and I certainly wasn't Snow White.
Across the room I spotted a friend of mine and decided to seek solace in his company. I made my way through a sea of strippers, Dixie Chicks, cowboys and French maids and said hello. I opened by telling him that I loved his surfer costume.
"Thanks. How come you're not wearing a costume?" he asked me, completely serious.
I looked down at my floor length green halter dress made of that stiff leisure suit polyester that chaffs the skin and took a deep breath.
"I'm not wearing a costume," I informed him, "because I just don't understand the need for people to pretend to be something they're not. Why can't we just establish our identities and stick with them? Why is it not okay to just be yourself? Besides, I find something disturbing about the fact that we're celebrating a pagan ritual, don't you?"
"Kate, its just Halloween. It's supposed to be fun."
I could tell that he felt bad for me not knowing the joy of All Hallow's Eve. I felt bad for me too. My youthful exuberance for the holiday had given way to hostility and resentment, and I would no longer be able to look forward to dressing up and celebrating with the masses. Instead, I've resigned myself to the fact that from now on Halloween will only be good for one thing: Peanut butter cups.
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