I like Halloween, really. Well, mostly. OK, only parts.
I don’t want to dress up anymore.
There, I said it.
I barely want to get my kids costumes. Other Half proposed El Guille as Curious George and Proximo as the man in the yellow hat. Ugh. Yes, maybe it would have been cute, but I could only see the serious amount of work in pulling it all together. I just allowed that idea to die on the vine.
“But,” said Other Half, “Just get Proximo a yellow shirt and pants.”
OH, “It can’t be that hard.”
Me, “It’s not spring.”
OH, “What does that have to do with anything?”
Me, “Yellow is a spring color. They don’t have yellow in the fall.”
OH, “They don’t?”
Me (in my head) “Yeah, which you would know if you had been clothes shopping for yourself at any point in the past 10 years without me.”
Me, “They don’t. So I will need to find a white shirt and pants. The white shirt won’t be hard but white pants would be. And then I would need to dye them yellow. And I don’t want to do that.”
What are the kids going to be? I don’t know. Also, see above, don’t care.
Since I work at a young company, they all want to dress up for work. I don’t want to be in a costume at work. It’s not that I think that Halloween is some sort of devilish holiday in which the very participation will endanger your eternal soul; I’m just tired (tired of telling all you people you’re going to hell for being so pagan.) I’m out of ideas. Last year I was pregnant and went as the Scarlet Letter—ruined a perfectly nice white maternity shirt with a hand-painted illuminated “A.” Maybe I’ll just be self-referential and go as the letter “B” this year. I could dig out the Scarlet Letter again to show just how much I really don’t care.
The thing is I feel a little guilty. Why? Search me. It’s as if I’m willingly backhanding youth with my insistence on wearing a regular skirt and sweater to work. I’m also getting to hate ‘clever’ costumes (although not cleaver costumes.) You know, where someone tapes broken cereal boxes all over their person and goes as a cereal killer. Or my cousin, who wants to go as ctrl-alt-delete once she and her husband have a baby. I’m over clever.
The worst, the absolute worst (yes, even worse than world hunger or feline AIDS) is going to work on Halloween with people who are in character. Sorry, nope, I don’t want you to act like you’re really Miss Alabama Beauty Pageant. I want you to sit down and answer the phone—in your regular voice. In fact I might place an urgent instant message to Eric D. Snider and beg him to save me from an Adult in Character (AiC.) Eric talked me down from the ledge three years ago; I might have to use him again this year. (And for those of you who are at work reading my blog, it’s NOT FUNNY if you come by my desk and act in character to annoy me. I’ll hit you with my docking station, promise. If you don’t believe me, remember that I went to work in the same outfit two days in a row a couple months ago. I don’t mess around.)
I’m beginning to empathize with my parents. Although we had great traditions for Halloween, they never even gave a thought to our costumes. We were on our own if we wanted to dress up. I’m a little afraid that if I left the kids on their own for their costumes El Guille would show up as the pants-less wonder and Proximo would show up as…whatever sleeper I put him into last night.
So that’s it.
I don’t want to dress up, don’t hate me.
Stay tuned tomorrow for why Halloween makes me (just a little) sick.
Happy Birthday DM!
RED SOX NATION!!!!!!!!!!!!!