The Curse of the Sexy Hobo

I feel like a bit of a killjoy when I confess that I have never been a big fan of Halloween. This is strange in one sense because I do very much enjoy candy. For some reason, although it makes no sense, I prefer mini candy bars in almost every variety to their full size counterparts, which I rarely buy. Growing up, we didn't eat a lot of candy, at least sanctioned candy, so I looked forward to the loot I pulled in as I got older and was allowed to trick-or-treat with friends who lived in more developed neighborhoods. However, come March, much of the candy I had coveted, sorted and hoarded was still in my bedroom, little nuggets of evidence that often the wishing is more pleasurable than the achieved.

The sticking point of Halloween for me is the costumes. As a kid I would on occasion get into the costume thing. My mother generally made our costumes, or we made our own, less successfully, but I remember being a pumpkin once, and Peter Pan, and a crayon with a pointy hat. But even in the best costumes I felt self-conscious dressed up, not free and uninhibited, as is the intention of the enterprise.

Far worse, though, were the Halloween festivities I had to endure as an adult. College Halloween parties are largely an opportunity for certain girls to dress in skimpy outfits they secretly want to wear all the time. Kitty cat was a top choice: black tights, leotard, tail, ears, whiskers drawn on with eyeliner. I am not the dressing up as a kitty cat type. I am also not the dressing up as Charlie's Angels type, or as Madonna type, or as any costume requiring the donning of fishnet stockings type. If knowing yourself is a sign of wisdom, then at least when it comes to Halloween costumes, I am a veritable sage.

To my chagrin, well into my twenties, people thought it was a good idea to dress up like idiots--sexy idiots in the case of the women, either macho or effeminate extremes in the case of the men--and attend Halloween parties, which were just like regular parties except for that I felt like a fool in my costume all night. I remember riding up to one party in an elevator with a bunch of acquaintances and saying into an unfortunate, unanticipated silence, "Has it ever occurred to anybody that Halloween is a holiday invented for actual children?"

Now, as the mother of two small children, I am experiencing yet another unexpected turn of events. Halloween, as it turns out, is a great holiday for parents. It involves helping assemble the costumes, which I rather enjoy as long as I don't have to wear one myself, the choosing, purchasing and eating of countless miniature candy bars, and being privy to the unadulterated joy of those you love in a state of sheer delight.

So far, neither of my offspring seem to have inherited my Scrooge-like dislike of Halloween. I will allow them ignorance of my stance for the time-being. At least until one of them appears in my living room dressed as the modern day equivalent of a Solid Gold dancer.