Last night ended the way it started. At 5 am.
Face painted. Sweaty. Trying not to vomit [actually that was only for the early morning carrera de los muertos 5K]
Unabashed sweet tooth and the pre-cavities to prove it. [and no, having candy in the office year-round does not detract from the tactile excitement of digging through a pile of boring Jolly Ranchers to find an unexpected mini-Twix].
Curfews be damned. For all the nights spent doing nothing, one night to lurk and loiter, with no regard to weather or weekdays.
Shadows, the darker side of life and all things black. Not a believer in paranormal [though tricks of light and expertly crafted tales of horror are quite capable of triggering my exaggerated startle response]. Also lets face it, a secret wannabe goth. Fascinated by the morbid traditions and celebrations of the dead that have gotten us to this Hallmark/PG-13 interpretation.
Paper bag luminaries.
The power of the costume to overcome social anxiety. One of the few times we would talk to, much less see, our neighbors. And unlike the constant rejection of band booster door-to-door salesmanship, these interactions were entirely positive. The script was lowbrow but reliable, and unless there was a dentist on your street trying to hand out pencils, your valor was generally well-compensated. [p.s. I'm not an anti-dentite, or anti-oral hygeine at all]. There must be some theater blood hidden in me deep to the stage fright, because I enjoy the face paint, wardrobe, props and tiniest transformative details to get into character. Missed calling?
General bitchery (among other things) is amplified. Fools acting foolish. Basic begets basic.
The Monster Mash.
Succubi. I was recently asked by someone in my office if I preferred "pretty" or "spooky" costumes [the answer should be apparent] and was jokingly reminded of the Mean Girls moment where Lindsey Lohan's character in the freakish mask realizes that the holiday is just another excuse for exhibitionism. That once again beauty [followed by money] is valued over creativity or effort. Every time I think I've learned that lesson, I learn it again the hard way.
La La Land. In the land of hair, makeup, year-round costume shops and a late October forecast for hot pants [where house parties involve DJ booths, stage-worthy spotlights, cars as props, pools filled with balloons, professional photographers and a mysteriously generous 2 am pizza delivery] DIY costumes seem less "Wes-Anderson quirky" and more "arts-and-crafty" [in a truly condescending and disdainful Michael Kors judgey way]. I swear someone said "aww that's cute" to me in the same manner and inflection as the faux-empathic backstab "bless her heart".
Adulting after Halloween is painful. When the holiday doesn't fall on a weekend, the festivities get diffused over enough nights and weekends that wearing a costume again becomes a chore, a nightmare in it's own right.
A 30-minute shower and my hair is still as frozen as cement.
Face painted. Sweaty. Trying not to vomit [actually that was only for the early morning carrera de los muertos 5K]
Why do I love Halloween?
Unabashed sweet tooth and the pre-cavities to prove it. [and no, having candy in the office year-round does not detract from the tactile excitement of digging through a pile of boring Jolly Ranchers to find an unexpected mini-Twix].
Curfews be damned. For all the nights spent doing nothing, one night to lurk and loiter, with no regard to weather or weekdays.
Shadows, the darker side of life and all things black. Not a believer in paranormal [though tricks of light and expertly crafted tales of horror are quite capable of triggering my exaggerated startle response]. Also lets face it, a secret wannabe goth. Fascinated by the morbid traditions and celebrations of the dead that have gotten us to this Hallmark/PG-13 interpretation.
Paper bag luminaries.
The power of the costume to overcome social anxiety. One of the few times we would talk to, much less see, our neighbors. And unlike the constant rejection of band booster door-to-door salesmanship, these interactions were entirely positive. The script was lowbrow but reliable, and unless there was a dentist on your street trying to hand out pencils, your valor was generally well-compensated. [p.s. I'm not an anti-dentite, or anti-oral hygeine at all]. There must be some theater blood hidden in me deep to the stage fright, because I enjoy the face paint, wardrobe, props and tiniest transformative details to get into character. Missed calling?
Why do I hate Halloween?
General bitchery (among other things) is amplified. Fools acting foolish. Basic begets basic.
The Monster Mash.
Succubi. I was recently asked by someone in my office if I preferred "pretty" or "spooky" costumes [the answer should be apparent] and was jokingly reminded of the Mean Girls moment where Lindsey Lohan's character in the freakish mask realizes that the holiday is just another excuse for exhibitionism. That once again beauty [followed by money] is valued over creativity or effort. Every time I think I've learned that lesson, I learn it again the hard way.
La La Land. In the land of hair, makeup, year-round costume shops and a late October forecast for hot pants [where house parties involve DJ booths, stage-worthy spotlights, cars as props, pools filled with balloons, professional photographers and a mysteriously generous 2 am pizza delivery] DIY costumes seem less "Wes-Anderson quirky" and more "arts-and-crafty" [in a truly condescending and disdainful Michael Kors judgey way]. I swear someone said "aww that's cute" to me in the same manner and inflection as the faux-empathic backstab "bless her heart".Adulting after Halloween is painful. When the holiday doesn't fall on a weekend, the festivities get diffused over enough nights and weekends that wearing a costume again becomes a chore, a nightmare in it's own right.
A 30-minute shower and my hair is still as frozen as cement.
No comments:
Post a Comment