With Halloween around the corner, the conversation du jour has been costume selection. And every time it comes up, I want to run in the opposite direction. Sadly, I’m pretty much over Halloween. I’m still all about free chocolate, but once we hit college, trick-or-treating became (understandably) inappropriate. What mom wants to open the door behind her six-year-old disguised as a bumblebee to find a group of sexy police officers waiting for their tricks or treats? This fact alone knocks the holiday down a number of notches – aside from the lame, health-conscious neighbors who doled out mini bags of pretzels (or those idiots who gave away their loose change – am I dressed as a CoinStar machine or Princess Jasmine?). Halloween was always about how many Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups I collected in my oversized pillowcase. Now we’re lucky if we’ll even make it to the candy-filled pumpkin at the Grape before it gets drunkenly dumped over someone’s head.
When we were younger, we could get away with letting our parents put us in ridiculous costumes and still look adorable. When I was forced to dress up as a pair of red dice or the Bride and Groom riding through the town parade in a Barbie Corvette (brother/sister combos – we were too young to protest) at least I got a prize and a front page picture in the local paper. If I did that now I’d just get laughed at and tagged in multiple embarrassing Facebook photos. I haven’t read the rulebook lately, but I’m pretty sure the No. 1 stipulation for dressing up in college is “The Sluttier the Better.” Look around on Oct. 31 and every girl you see will be dressed as some “hot” version of a male dominated profession, i.e. firefighters, cops, construction workers (can’t say I’m not guilty, but I’ve learned my lesson). Girls, I know you are more creative than “We Put Out … FIRES!”
The only thing Halloween has going for it these days is the party. When you wake up the morning after, you’ll know that the reason behind your nauseous stomach isn’t because you ate too much candy corn, and that your pounding headache has nothing to do with a sugar rush. It’s because the Jungle Juice Cauldron was calling your name – all night. So, drink up next Wednesday and toast the days when you dressed up as a nurse without having to say, “Hey baby, can I take your temperature?”
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