I have a confession to make: I’m a Halloween Scrooge.
No, I don’t mean I’ll be dressing up as some sexy spin-off of old Ebenezer come October 31st. No fishnet stockings and Dickensian garb for this gal — it’s much worse than even that horrifying image.
I am the greatest autumnal Scrooge-aroonie that e’er existed: I just really, really don’t like everyone’s favorite holiday.
There! I said it! I don’t like Halloween: October 31st, All Hallow’s Eve, the great Jack-o-lantern cringe-fest.
When I say this is a confession, I mean it in the truest sense; I’m pretty certain that none of my closest friends know this about me. In fact, my own husband didn’t know this was the case (and I’m 99.9% sure I dropped a few points in his estimation because of it). I’ve been a closet Halloween-phobe for my entire life, guys.
And I’m truly, truly sorry ’bout it.
See, I’m not a party pooper. Oh, hell no. I love a good shindig and pretty much any excuse for one. In fact, I wouldn’t even dare to be a party pooper when the end of October rolls around and everyone and their cat is covered in fake blood.
But I just don’t give a bat’s booty about Halloween.
Part of me wishes I could bring myself to get into the spirit of things: Paper mache my life away with some badass home-made costume, force my pets into a polyester insect onesie, redecorate my living room in orange and black…you know, the whole caboodle, the entire nine yards.
I wish I could walk into one of those sad Halloween superstores that pop up in burnt-out retail parks and see anything other than a heap of sad. I wish I enjoyed the tradition of handing out mini Butterfingers to other people’s children.
And yet — there’s a grouchy little Halloween Grinch in the recesses of my brain that takes one look at all the *spooky* decor and the tacky plastic skulls and the Frankenstein breakfast cereal and shrieks, “no more! NO MORE!”
I had to search deep for reasons why this little buzz-killing voice exists. Shouldn’t I revel in the festivities along with everyone else? Shouldn’t I want to have a fully stocked dressing-up box of standby spook attire? Shouldn’t I relish the idea of one day having a gang of little mini-mes who I can haul around the neighborhood with buckets of novelty chocolates?
The answer is yes, of course. But, alas, I can’t imagine I’ll ever change. I’m not trying to attract anyone else into taking a swig of my potent hater-ade — just hear me out.
Maybe I can just say I’m overwhelmed, because three major holidays in three months is just too much. And I sure as hell won’t be allowed to take all three of them off work, so something’s gotta give. Sorry, not sorry?
Maybe I’m bitter that my efforts tend to fall a little flat; last year, I donned a (fabric) pig’s head and trotters, wielding a small skull to the prompt, “Alas, poor Yorick!” and thought that my “Ham-let” costume was absolutely genius. No-one got it, of course, except my fellow English major friends — and it was completely lost on the other party-goers in the casino club we ended up at.
Maybe I’m not patient enough to spend hours of valuable time making trays of themed deviled eggs and intricately decorated cake pops.
Bam. Moving on.
Maybe I’m just too cheap to want to fork out actual cash-money on pumpkins that won’t be eaten, cotton wool that will cling persistently to my shrubs for months, and a costume that’s the correct ratio of original, scary, funny, and sexy — oh, and that people will actually understand. And a plastic sack of candy that will only go 75% off on the morning of November 1st.
Certainly, it’s a combination of these things.