We have a zillion costumes. I keep them around for sentimental reasons.
Cat burglar, cheerleader, fairy princess, scary fairy princess, peacock, shark, man-eating shark, gorilla, mermaid, mermaid-gorilla, bat, pirate, gumball machine, fireman, deer, deer in the headlights, spaceman, zombie, Ron, Herobrine, "Steve."
Not to mention lion, dragon, Egyptian cat, the Headless Horseman, a spider, and a hotdog complete with a squiggle of shiny mustard that the pets have sheepishly worn for my entertainment, poor things.
Okay, maybe not a zillion costumes. But a wardrobe of weirdness nonetheless. Clustered together, testing the strength of the zippered bedding bags I've repurposed to contain them, they pop out to surprise me throughout the year.
Someday, I tell myself, I will sell them. Or give the costumes to charity. Or hand them down to my eventual grandchildren.
I have always loved this season. I even love that the retail calendar lights its fuse in August just as back to school sales are wrapping up.
More time to comparison shop for Styrofoam tombstones and plastic skeletons to add to our front (grave) yard, I say.
Of course, there was a time when time was not as plentiful. The kids would change their minds about being Draculas or damsels and decide, instead, that they needed to be a Humpback whale or a character named Angela from a book I'd never read. This would all happen roughly three days before Oct. 31st.
If I were lucky, they'd be satisfied with cardboard, slapdash, and Goodwill. Nothing I make would ever be ready for Pinterest.
The kids are not kids anymore. They don't harbor dreams of the fanciful things they can be on a single night of the year. They are more interested in their careers as teenagers and the capital that endows. They will decide to go out if they can convince a friend to go with them.
If they dress up for this new door-to-door ritual, they'll figure out something ... without too much of my help.
It's weird being on the other side of that creaky old door.
The side where people discuss in emphatic tones how old is too old to participate in the annual parade of candy.
As if those diminutive Milky Ways were worth their weight in gold. Or if every teenager that approaches comes with a grocery list of mal-intent: Eggs, toilet paper, shaving cream …
There will always be people who hurt, whether they do so actively or passively.
I suppose it's fitting that the awkward stages of adolescence and advancing age should meet for a battle of wills on a night that is custom made for such diabolical commerce.
In its own way, that's a perfectly acceptable disguise.
My daughter wears it like a frown sometimes.
I know that will turn around.
Everyone has a gap in their willingness to put themselves out there. Eventually, the teens will slip back in quietly as their social circles rotate.
I will be in my own disguise. Maybe I'll be a Gorilla Magician, sitting on the front porch with a banana daiquiri, handing out candy.
All are welcome to stop by.
Cat burglar, cheerleader, fairy princess, scary fairy princess, peacock, shark, man-eating shark, gorilla, mermaid, mermaid-gorilla, bat, pirate, gumball machine, fireman, deer, deer in the headlights, spaceman, zombie, Ron, Herobrine, "Steve."
Not to mention lion, dragon, Egyptian cat, the Headless Horseman, a spider, and a hotdog complete with a squiggle of shiny mustard that the pets have sheepishly worn for my entertainment, poor things.
Okay, maybe not a zillion costumes. But a wardrobe of weirdness nonetheless. Clustered together, testing the strength of the zippered bedding bags I've repurposed to contain them, they pop out to surprise me throughout the year.
Someday, I tell myself, I will sell them. Or give the costumes to charity. Or hand them down to my eventual grandchildren.
I have always loved this season. I even love that the retail calendar lights its fuse in August just as back to school sales are wrapping up.
More time to comparison shop for Styrofoam tombstones and plastic skeletons to add to our front (grave) yard, I say.
Of course, there was a time when time was not as plentiful. The kids would change their minds about being Draculas or damsels and decide, instead, that they needed to be a Humpback whale or a character named Angela from a book I'd never read. This would all happen roughly three days before Oct. 31st.
If I were lucky, they'd be satisfied with cardboard, slapdash, and Goodwill. Nothing I make would ever be ready for Pinterest.
The kids are not kids anymore. They don't harbor dreams of the fanciful things they can be on a single night of the year. They are more interested in their careers as teenagers and the capital that endows. They will decide to go out if they can convince a friend to go with them.
If they dress up for this new door-to-door ritual, they'll figure out something ... without too much of my help.
It's weird being on the other side of that creaky old door.
The side where people discuss in emphatic tones how old is too old to participate in the annual parade of candy.
As if those diminutive Milky Ways were worth their weight in gold. Or if every teenager that approaches comes with a grocery list of mal-intent: Eggs, toilet paper, shaving cream …
There will always be people who hurt, whether they do so actively or passively.
I suppose it's fitting that the awkward stages of adolescence and advancing age should meet for a battle of wills on a night that is custom made for such diabolical commerce.
In its own way, that's a perfectly acceptable disguise.
My daughter wears it like a frown sometimes.
I know that will turn around.
Everyone has a gap in their willingness to put themselves out there. Eventually, the teens will slip back in quietly as their social circles rotate.
I will be in my own disguise. Maybe I'll be a Gorilla Magician, sitting on the front porch with a banana daiquiri, handing out candy.
All are welcome to stop by.
No comments:
Post a Comment