I wasn't one of those parents who got wildly costumed for Trick-or-Treat. I'd sometimes wear orange and black or a crocheted sweater that seemed web-like, paired with a furry tarantula pin, but that was generally the extent of my ensemble. It wasn't that I didn't like dressing up, but rather I knew over the course of the evening, I'd gradually end up wearing more of my daughter's costume than she.
The mask was usually first to go, then the hat, then accessories. It was often the same with most of the parents in our group. We'd start off empty-handed and dressed rather dull, but soon be wielding discarded shields and swords and guitars, wearing witch hats paired with Smurf gloves and Powerpuff wigs, while our sugared-up children shrieked up the street ahead of us.
It wasn't until a few years back that I attended a few Halloween parties aimed at adults. I had no idea what to expect costume-wise, so was stunned by the expensive and elaborate outfits. Most of the women's costumes seemed to include the word "sexy." Sexy nurse. Sexy secretary. Sexy cowgirl. There was even a sexy Hazmat worker, complete with goggles and a mostly unzipped yellow jumpsuit.
My costume wasn't sexy, though. It was merely confusing.
It began with a gothic-looking jacket that seemed the perfect foundation for a Victorian-era vampire costume. I cobbled together random pieces on the cheap and was so tickled with how affordable the outfit was that I splurged on an $18 set of fangs that would adhere directly over my teeth, along with false eyelashes with teeny bats at the tips.
I was fully dressed when I attempted to put on the lashes, something I'd only once before worn in my life.
To say it went badly is an understatement. By the time I gave up, my eyes were thoroughly bloodshot and my upper lids, sans fake lashes, were now adhered halfway up to my brow line. I looked full on demented. Visualize a Victorian pug.
It wasn't quite the look I was after.
Hoping to salvage the outfit, I then tried to glue on the fangs. If I'd been able to see, following the instructions might've gone better. They weren't as simple as I'd hoped. No "squirt glue, press to tooth." Instead, there was water to be boiled and powder to be mixed and timed and dried and layered and pressed. Fake fang and tooth needed to mingle and decide whether they wanted to spend time together.
They did not.
By the time I gave up, my canine teeth were layered with a gummy adhesive that wouldn't come off, causing my upper lip to frequently catch on my teeth like a speedbump.
I looked even more like a Victorian pug.
Didier assured me my outfit looked fine without fangs, except when we got to the party, I couldn't go anywhere without someone attempting to guess who I was.
"I'm a sleep-deprived vampire," I said. "Post dental procedure."
I was recently telling a friend about the evening and she shared how she'd once gone to a costume party dressed as Charlie Chaplin. She had the little black bowler hat, baggy pants and a black top coat, and she'd practiced her little waddley walk. It was dead-on Chaplin, right down to the little mustache.
"The little mustache was all people saw," she said. "They'd spot me and clack their heels together, raise one arm above their head and salute. 'Sieg heil!'"
We've been invited to another party this year. I considered revisiting my Victorian pug, but might just grab some random costume pieces and go as Trick-or-Treat Mom.
Karin Fuller can be reached via email at karinfuller@gmail.com.