Halloween: Or How I Lost My Self-Respect

Halloween. The miles traversed. The frozen appendages (no Mom, I am not going to wear a hoodie under my costume, because I'm not the Staypuff Marshmellow Man, darn it), the inevitable disproportion of sour, fruity candy to chocolate (if I eat three Krackels for every Starburst, I can balance it), that one neighbor that always gave Mary Janes (but you kept going every year, because there was no way they could still be selling those in normal supermarkets - until you realized that they most have bought the last store out back in 1960 to prepare for just such an emergency), and that other neighbor that always gave a little paper bag full of unidentifiable generic candy (and you always went to that house because it was the only time they came to their door all year, and you wanted to see if they actually had little children trapped in their basement and ate toads).

Halloween. The struggles. The triumphs.

The public humiliation.

I would like to say that one year I was something typical. Like a gypsy (if anyone is willing to corroborate this story, please contact me).

If there was ever a case for introducing a child to popular culture...

This summer I was approached at a wedding by a former neighbor: "Emily Ann! Why I remember when you were just a little tomboy building things in the dirt. And that time you scraped up your face on the bottom of the pool...oh, that looked so awful. And your Halloween costumes! They were always so...imaginative. (That line that they feed you as a child...In a year, no one will even remember that this happened!...Lies).

Imaginative. Yes. 

I was the Lady of Shalott as a ten year old. Try explaining that one to the Grim Reaper and Malibu Barbie.


Medusa. That was a good one...No need to explain away my nerdiness. I had snakes in my hair. It was enough.

The 2 inch, black plastic nails on the other hand, might have been ill-advised. I'm pretty sure my pinky nail has only recently recovered from the effects of the super glue.

(On a side note, ladies, save your bridesmaid dresses because they may be useful for future gargoyle costumes. Mom, do not take this as a negative commentary on your style. I'm sure that shade of green was really stylish in 1978).

A newspaper reporter.

On second thought, that was not Halloween.

Moving on...

Edible things constituted a large part of my costume repertoire.

One year I was a Peanut Butter and Jelly sandwich. I would like to say that the purple sweatsuit necessary to the business part of the sandwich was purchased for the sake of the costume...

You know, I'm just going go ahead and say that the purple sweatsuit was purchased for the sake of the costume.

Jelly Beans (Clear, plastic trashbag filled with balloons. Very clever. Not recommended fall evening wear).

Grocery bag (technically, a leaf bag filled with empty cereal boxes and egg cartons). In a sad premonition of my future life, the bag ripped from the weight of the groceries. If only I had a little more consideration for the environment I might have been a canvas shopping bag, and I would have avoided this tragedy. But this was pre-Al Gore era, so I was still unconscious of my carbon footprint. As it was I to hold myself together while my best friend carried my candy pillowcase. (I don't want to use this blog as a medium for personal vendettas, but I'm preetttttyyy sure she took advantage of this situation).

A roll of Candy Buttons. The little boy I was with kept trying to eat them. Although the styrofoam probably wouldn't have tasted much different than the candy. Those things tasted like paper. Probably because they actually were about 50% paper that stuck to them when you pulled them off.

Arguably the worst excuse for candy. But at least it was marketed as candy.

Not like those people that gave out pretzels. I always felt a sense of betrayal proportionate to the length of the sidewalk and the time it took for them to come to the door. The worst.

Except for the dentist who lived down the street. He gave out toothbrushes. That was just downright insensitive.

The Golden Fleece of trick-or-treating? Mallo Cups. In the stupor of sugar inebriation, I may have traded three king size candy bars for one of these...and I have no regrets. It was a mythical being that only appeared on October 31st. You didn't see Galahad giving up the Holy Grail for a Snickers Bar.


College brought Halloween to another level.
(Note the use of "another." The jury is still out on whether this level was higher or lower.)

I wasn't going to make the same mistakes I made as a child - no more Tennyson heroines, no obscure female writers, no mythology - I was going to be culturally relevant.

A poor time to reverse the trend. At my tiny, conservative college, where you were just as likely to see the Androgynous Man as you were to see the Invisible Man, I decided I was going to be Juno.

Not the goddess. The pregnant teenager.

"I've never waltzed with a pregnant girl before. It's a little weird. I guess it probably just feels natural to you though."

Should have stuck with mythology.

One year I painstakingly taped cotton balls all over my jeans and carried a spray bottle full of water. When someone would ask what I was, I sprayed them in the face and said "Cloudy with a Chance of Showers." It was surprisingly unpopular.

The time we were Madagascar was the most successful to date. Unfortunately, I had a fever of 102 degrees. So I don't remember much. Except that I was a pretty fly Marty, and A. will never live down being the hippo.

The last story is brought to you by the realization that my dreams of becoming a public official will never transpire. Also, a complete lack of self-respect.

I decided to be the sun.

A costume that involved hair glue, temporary dye, and my favorite colors? What could possibly go wrong?

I'll tell you.

"Hair glue" might sound very permanent and concrete. But what happens when an immoveable object meets an irresistible force (in this case, my hair, which has a exasperating regard for the laws of gravity)? Watch how quickly that immoveable object wilts.

"Don't worry," my bestie reassured me as we tried to prop up my crunchy stalks of hair with rubber bands and prayer. "Once we spray the dye it'll look fine."

Except when that yellow dye encounters my brown hair.

"It looks yellow...really! It's just the weird light in the bathroom!"

I walked out into the common area.

"Em, what's with the green hair?!" Bestie quietly retreated.

For a half hour or so I persisted in pushing the idea that I was the sun, but eventually caved under the strain.

"So...what are you?"

*mental surrender*

"I'm a carrot."

I'm going on a quest for Mallo Cups. I'll be back never.