Ten years is about the extent of our Trick or Treating lives. Unless your parents were the industrious type and decorated you during your infancy and toddlerhood, but Halloween memories from those years only serve as fodder for nightmares. I trick or treated from 1975 to 1985, a chance decade that in my opinion, contained a better than adequate sampling of Halloweens. This era caught the end of the "flame retarded" mass market cheap suits and encompassed the razor blade scares, the birth of the slasher genre, and Jaycees haunted houses. It was also a time when just about every neighborhood in town handed out candy, meaning kids weren't limited to corporate events like Mall-o-ween and other Halloween substitutes.
I feel like the holiday has grown up with me. It seemed almost dormant during my "too cool" years, but then by the time I was ready to start celebrating again the Halloween Renaissance of the late nineties was upon us with a national upcropping of Halloween super stores and temporary haunted theme parks. These days, I'm just waiting for it to become a paid holiday.
But back to my ten years...
A hat from the Pirates of the Caribbean souvenir shop was the basis for this ensemble. I think the skull and crossbones iron-on came out of a box of Honeycombs, but I'm not positive. I distinctly remember feeling like a fool thanks to that hole in my eye patch.
This was the first costume of my choosing, as well as my first store-bought outfit. I remember being surprised that a product physically taller than me was something my family could actually afford. Ah, drat! I just noticed that the generic Spider-Man to my left ruined the picture with a fake nose pick. Let this serve as a lesson to us all about the lasting impact of our actions.
I know, I know.. how very predictable.
I finally got my mom on board and thanks to a McCall's sewing pattern I was able to get the whole goth thing out of my system.
Thus begins a sad season in my personal recorded history. For three consecutive years my folks didn't see fit to photograph me in my Halloween costumes, thus making this blog entry exactly 30% less effective.
You're simply going to have to trust me. I realize I have no photographic proof, but I was Frankenstein in 1981. Please, please believe me. This is brutal. Here I am, a quarter of a century later and I'm still paying the price for my parents' dreadful decision.
Up until this year I was nothing short of delighted to buy the off-the-shelf get-ups with the flimsy, pinchy rubber bands and air vents that bled my tongue. By my logic, anything homemade was inferior to that which was mass produced. Therefore making my own Halloween costume seemed as foolish as eating my mom's cooking instead of McDonald's.
Then in fourth grade I was subject to a surprise school-wide costume contest. We were lined up against the hallway wall as a select group of teachers examined each of us.. judging us. Up until that minute I had loved being E.T. It was my favorite movie, he was my favorite character and associating myself with the franchise was a privilege and an honor. But in the teacher's gaze my blinders fell off and I realized that I was one of three E.T's in my homeroom of thirty students. Which is to say that one tenth of my class consisted of lovable, stranded Extra-Terrestrials. In that moment I tasted a new kind of shame.
This year I was unclassifiable and totally original. Ok, not exactly. I did use one of those kits where you cut out the foam appliances that you painted and glued to your face. I liked the set because it reminded me of that one episode of The Twilight Zone.
My greatest achievement in seasonal disguises would have to be this one. It required more foresight and craft than any other year. My mom made the coveralls and I did the rest. Now, these days Ghostbuster suits are an off-the-rack affair, but at the time this thing was mind-blowing. I strutted around the school carnival and heard comments and praise pouring out all around me. I was giving high fives. It may be the most confident I'd ever been in my life. I'll admit it— I got cocky.
In a calculated effort to heal my wounds from 1982, I had my sights set on another costume contest. I stood in line with the other contenders with a huge smile and when I took my turn on the floor I was drunk with self-assurance. But as it is written: Pride goes before destruction. I lost to my best friend's rubber monster mask. After some detective work we learned that the judge thought I was supposed to be a janitor. (A janitor with a proton pack; give me a break.)
The best thing about this outfit? It looks life-like, in a dopy sort of way.
HAPPY HALLOWEEN!
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