I am a total holiday whore.
Okay, so not a wearing ugly Santa sweaters whore. And I don’t do the sparkly heart-shaped deely-boppers for Valentine’s Day. But I do love holidays. I start listening to my John Denver and the Muppets Christmas album shortly after Thanksgiving, I think St Patrick’s Day should be spent completely inebriated, and yes, I DO expect Kyle to get me something for Valentine’s Day every year. (Even if it does take a little arm-twisting.) I love the good food that goes with most American holidays, and I like that for a few weeks or even one day, I get to escape for my dark, cynical little world and feel that there is still some good and still a reason to be happy left in the world. So even if I don’t get to celebrate them, I really do love holidays.
However. There are two major holidays that don’t rock my boat. One is Easter, because once you get too old (and by old, I mean health-conscious) for Reese’s peanut butter eggs, there’s no point to the holiday anymore.
The other? Halloween.
I hate Halloween.
It was college that ruined it for me, really. I didn’t always hate Halloween. As a kid, though I was never bonkers about it, free candy and a class party was always something I could get excited about. And costumes were easy, because with the exception of the year my favorite aunt bought me the bad-ass store-bought (store-bought!) Little Mermaid costume, I was the same thing every year: a ballerina. Which really meant that I wore whatever I’d worn in my dance recital the previous June.
But, again, once you’re too old to be knocking on doors and getting candy, about half the significance of the holiday goes down the tubes. All that’s left for adults is an excuse to go to crazy costume parties and get shwasted once a year. Except that when you go to a fine arts college and major in theatre, EVERY party is a costume party. Literally. About every two weeks, there would be another party, with another theme: Pirate Party, Anything But Clothes Party, Superhero Party, Pimps ‘n Hoes Party, Song Lyric Party, Dressed to Get Fucked Party, White Trash Bash, Rock Star Party…the list was endless. I dug going to parties, but it was starting to feel like I couldn’t go to a party just…as Stephanie. I had to be someone else. The magic of getting to play dress-up and be someone else for a while wore off, and I found myself just wanted to be me.
Of course, the magic might not have worn off if it weren’t for the other reason I despise Halloween: I suck at coming up with costumes. Hardcore. And in this day and age, I have two choices: my costume must either be very clever and witty, or very skanky. And I am good at pulling off neither. Especially when the former requires a good deal of time and money to put said costume together, and the latter requires of smoking hot body, and I have none of those things. It just seems like a lot of money and effort, and for what? So I can get drunk and make an ass of myself? Shit, I don’t need to be in costume to do that. I can get drunk and make an ass of myself just fine in regular clothes, thank you.
But I suppose I can’t be too upset with Halloween. After all, it was at a Halloween party that my husband and I first got together. But this year, I may keep my costume simple, and go as a drunk girl.
After all, I’ve got everything I need already in my closet.