See. I’m still funny.
Halloween is hands down my favorite holiday. When you have a crazy family, Thanksgiving and Christmas is more likely to give you a series of mini-strokes than the warm fuzzies, plus October is when the weather in Texas is finally tolerable for extended periods of time.
And Laffy Taffy, y’all. I’ve had 50 today and it’s not even noon.
Last year Halloween was a nightmare for me. I was right in the grip of The Dark Days, and all I wanted was to dress up as something sexy and host a party at our house that would remind David how fun and cute and pulled together I was. Instead, I ruined the chili, no one came because I only knew like 3 people in San Antonio and David put off telling his friends until last minute, and the day before I got a haircut that looked like a child did it with school scissors. In the dark. With his feet.
So for two days straight we fought because he didn’t want to wear a costume, I was stressed no one would come, and he laughed at me for crying about my haircut- which was really me crying about feeling so utterly uprooted from Houston and not having my hair stylist around… or my boss or students or coworkers or roommates or my friends or my favorite yoga instructor or my dry cleaner or my church or my favorite running trail… or you get the point.
Instead of being something sexy, I was a witch. And also I dressed up as a witch.
This year though… this year I feel like I’ve given up on trying to be cute and fun and pulled together. There’s some undeniable low key depression going on, but also I’m just exhausted. I’m exhausted of being always too much and never enough. I’m exhausted of thinking about how I screamed and slammed doors and was a heinous bitch during that haircut fight, and most of all I’m exhausted of the endless death spiral of wondering, “what came first, his awful or my awful?” and always trying to find ways to give or take blame. As if that would make it make sense? And take the pain away?
So this year for Halloween, I will be not dressing up for the very first time. I’ve been dressing up in hundreds of roles over the years…
Baby Pumpkin, Baby Bat, proud big sister, protective big sister, Flapper, Cowgirl, School Girl, straight A student, smartass student, Cheerleader, cheerleader, Sexy Teacher, sexy librarian, teacher of the year, Wonder Woman, wondering woman, wandering woman, Queen of Hearts, protector of my heart, unabashed giver of my heart, self-inflicted breaker of my heart, Sexy Pumpkin, Bride, bride to-be, 1950s Housewife, 1950s housegirlfriend, Eve, temptress, the downfall, the accused, Tinkerbell, Hippie, hippie, Sexy Witch, Witch, witch, monster…
aaaaaaaand I’m straight up tapped out.
I’m going as an unapologetically heartbroken, strong, brave, terrified, exhausted woman who gave away two overflowing boxes of costumes to a middle school theater department in a fit of rage that freed her from a lie of a life, 95% of her worldly possessions, and any clue whatsoever on how to ever go back to dressing up and pretending.
Not that I’d want to anyways.