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Odd Angles
Costume foolery: Costumes and masks can't disguise the people who never outgrew Halloween. They rode this children's holiday right into adulthood, from child-size Junior Mints to grownup Paydays, from Ring Pops to mom and pops.These Adult Halloweenies (AHs) are the folks who answer their door with treats in their hands and hatchets in their backs, offering a candy bowl with a skeleton hand popping out -- the ultimate gotcha to a never-again-trusting 5-year-old.
Halloween is the only time of the year it's okay to scare the Honey Nut Cheerios out of little kids. For the most part, it's all in good fun, but partly it's payback to neighborhood munchkins for riding their dang bikes across my dang lawn all dang summer.
Not that I'm a Halloween party pooper. It's just that I've never successfully made the AH crossover. Sewing costumes, carving pumpkins and gorging on the good candy at the bottom of the bowl (or, the next day, stealing chocolate from my child's haul when he's not looking) -- those things I do with success, joy and gluttony. But I am always aware of the separation of Halloween duties: kids have fun; grown-ups have fun watching kids have fun.
The few times I have tried to join in AH activities, I got tricked. Like Halloween '86, when a friend from work invited me to a Halloween party. I went as a punk rocker. First I spiked my shoulder-length hair, which took an entire jar of mystery goop I bought at Dart Drug (oldness indicator No. 1). I then painted my face white, taped a few safety pins to my cheeks, and put on black lipstick.
Dressing as a punk rocker when punk rock was popular was as out-there then as going to a Halloween party today in oversized jeans and T-shirt. Not too many people noticed or appreciated my effort, but that wasn't the trick part.
The next morning I took a shower ... three times, because I couldn't get the goop out of my hair. Hoping that a hairstylist would have extra-strength shampoo (does that even exist?), I raced to the nearest beauty salon (oldness indicator No. 2). After examining my hair with disgust, awe and a gathering crowd, she came to this conclusion: "I suggest Spic-N-Span."
She explained that I used a petroleum-based product that does not wash out. After trying Palmolive (my compromise) for nearly an hour, she finally said, "I'm going to have to cut it out." The good news is that my hair was squeaky clean and the stylist's soft hands were worthy of Madge (oldness indicator No. 3).
When I got home, my husband said it was too bad we didn't have another Halloween party to go to because, "You could go as a tennis ball!" I told him maybe I'd go as a divorcee.
A few Halloweens ago, I tried again, but kept it simple: I wore a Native American costume (including headdress and braids) to work. Because my co-workers were so outgoing, I was sure they were AH's. But just in case, I e-mailed one on Halloween Eve: "Does everyone wear costumes?!"
My Pocahontas transformation took longer than I thought, so I left the next morning without checking my e-mail. How did it go? Here's a hint: Waiting in my inbox was my coworker's reply -- "No!"
I'm not giving up on being an AH, but I am taking baby steps. This year the only thing in my hair will be a headband with bobbing jack-o'-lanterns that I will wear proudly ... after work.
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