Halloween Through the Years

I am sort of notoriously anti-holiday of any kind. Christmas is awkward. I don’t like turkey, so Thanksgiving is out. Valentine’s Day? More like “drink wine on the couch and cry” day, amiright?? Ha ha! Just kidding. Totally kidding. I’m kidding, really.

Easter, you know. Okay. I guess you could say the Monday holidays are my favorite because free three-day weekend! But IF forced to choose a holiday, like if someone said, “there can only be one holiday ever again, and all of the other holidays change to this holiday, what would you choose??” I’d choose Halloween. I don’t know why all of the other holidays have to change. They could just go away? The world in my head makes no sense.

Anyway, yes, I trick-or-treated most of the way through high school and no I do not feel guilty about that, come at me. Here are most of my costumes through the years. Because I don’t know what else to do with my time apparently.

In kindergarten I was a witch, with a shiny, purple dress that I loved so much I wanted to wear it every day of my life. My dad was Santa Clause. He carried my candy over his shoulder like a sack of toys. It’s one of my earliest memories. I remember how dark it was and I remember the stars and I remember the street where we lived at the time. I still love that costume.

In first grade I was a princess. My grandma made me a costume of pink and I had a sparkly tiara and wand and there is probably still glitter in my grandparent’s house, unless the new owners ripped up the carpet. I was also at the front of the town Halloween parade, so what up lesser first-graders!

In second grade I was a bunny and I was effing adorable. I pinned my little fluffy tail to the back of a sweatshirt and paraded around in pink tights like there were pants. And, it being the nineties, wearing tights as pants was something I did with alarming frequency. (Mother, LOOK AT MY LIFE, LOOK AT MY CHOICES.)

In third grade I was a witch again. You get to a point where you start recycling costumes because the good ones are few and far between. For some reason, this was the year of the mime. So many people were mimes. I think it’s because just a few weeks before mimes had performed at our school? I was not a mime, but it did begin a life-long love of mimes. And street performers. If I see someone performing on a corner, I don’t care what it is, I will watch and take pictures, but I will run away before they make eye contact and expect money. Get a real job, hippies.

Fourth grade was the bride of Frankenstein, but we were too cheap to buy an actual costume and wig, so my mom spray-painted a gray streak in my teased hair and literally not one person knew what I was supposed to be. “umm…zombie ,maybe” was what people said.

Fifth grade was the year I was a cat. Animals are popular and “cute” when you’re in elementary school.

Then sixth grade was the year of the fortune teller, a year of which I am particularly proud. I wore a long skirt and peasant blouse and a colorful scarf on my head and lots of jangly jewelry and I carried a hamster ball as my crystal ball. It was spectacular. Carrying a hamster ball and a heavy pillow case of candy was actually sort of difficult, but I persevered. For the love of costume. Also, yes. Pillow case. I see these kids out now with tiny pumpkin buckets or grocery bags and I’m like, “AMATEURS.” Because I’m mature. Actually I don’t say anything. Most of the time I turn off the light and hide in my house until trick-or-treating is over.

Seventh grade is when things started getting weird and I went out as a “coked-out Punky Brewster.” I made my fuzzy shirt a half shirt, and I wore a pink quilted jacket and shorts and tights and different colored socks and mostly it was an excuse to show off some skin. Seventh grade, yo!

The next year I was a farm girl, with a blonde, braided wig and denim overalls. Creativity is going down the drain.

Ninth and tenth grade and eleventh grade are a blur. Did I even go trick-or-treating? Senior year I went “80s girl” with some friends, but people thought we were the Spice Girls. We just wanted candy, so, you know. Sure. Whatever you say. The fact that I’ve always looked younger than my age was particularly helpful on Halloween.

When I was 25 I walked around Georgetown on Halloween and it was last minute so I threw on a choker and a bunch of rings and went as a 90s teenager. Basically I was myself with a choker.

I didn’t dress up again until last year, when I put a lot of thought into my broken baby doll costume, but the party was dark and people were just like, “oh, a girl in a baby doll dress.” They couldn’t see the cracks I meticulously painted on my face. What a waste. (Kidding! It was fun either way! Even if Nicole got all the compliments on the costume she bought literally THE DAY BEFORE. But it’s fine. I’m not bitter. I definitely didn’t think about it on “Drink wine on the couch and cry day.”)

This year I’m dressing as a writer who wants to finish revisions before NaNo. So, pajamas. And also drinking wine on the couch and crying. Maybe THAT’s my favorite holiday…

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Face Your Fears

Last weekend I went to Six Flags for their Fright Fest event. I have a weird relationship with fear, in that I hate being scared but also I crave it? I guess the difference is, like, when I’m alone in my house and I hear a noise and don’t know what it is and I think it’s a murderer, that kind of fear I don’t like. But controlled fear? Yes, please. Make me scream. It helps that I’m naturally jumpy and jittery. If you’re too quiet and you walk up to my desk unexpectedly, I will jump very high. People have fun with this. It’s a riot.

I used to love roller coasters. I’d be first in line, I’d sit in the front, or the back because sometimes the back is even scarier. There’s this ride in Kennywood, the amusement park in Pittsburgh, called the Jack Rabbit. It’s an old wooden coaster and toward the end it skips the track. If you’re in the back, you fly. It’s terrifying. I loved it. There’s another ride there, one of the oldest in the country, another wooden coaster, called The Thunderbolt. I was SO EXCITED the first summer I was tall enough to ride it. Sometime during high school I went to Cedar Point where I rode my first stand-up coaster and the kind where you’re feet dangle. I rode them multiple times in one day.

And then I grew up. The longer I go without riding a roller coaster, the more terrifying they become. A few years ago, my friend Anna forced me to ride the Cyclone at Coney Island. I held the bar so tight that I aggravated my carpal tunnel and my fingers were numb for days. And because I didn’t want to be a loser, I went on rides last weekend. I strapped myself in, pulling the belt so tight that my hip hurt. I pulled the harness in until I could only take shallow breaths, but at least I wouldn’t move or fall out. I screamed a lot. I swore. But I did it. I only sat one out. Something about Superman. It was so high, guys. I looked at people going up the first hill and then I looked away and then I looked back and they were STILL going. They weren’t even close to the top. So I stayed where my feet were firmly planted on the ground. I faced my fear of roller coasters and I lived to tell the tale. That’s my favorite thing about being scared. Living through it.

Then came the haunted houses. For some reason when I’m scared, my instinct is to cover my head with my hands and crouch down in the fetal position. While walking. So I when through these haunted houses sort of hunched over with my hands in an awkward half-surrender, always ready to cover my head when the danger came. I jumped a lot. I screamed. I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who left with a raspy voice that day. But I loved it. Because walking through I know that even if someone follows me, they will stop eventually. When they burst through a wall, I know they’re just going to go back into the wall. It’s scary, but it’s fine.

I guess the true lesson in all of this, is that you don’t want me on your zombie apocalypse team. I knew this, but now it is confirmed. I will not want to drive fast over rough roads and when faced with fear I will crouch into the fetal position with my hands over my head until the threat disappears. Which, in an apocalypse it never does. So that’s how I’ll die. Rolled up like an armadillo or a scared ‘possum. I absolutely will not face real fears. But the fake ones? Bring it on.