So, yesterday Kevin took his kids shopping for Halloween costumes.
I had the option to bow out, but tagged along anyway because it was the most reliable way to acquire dinner. We went to Target.
Fortunately for all involved, the kids were pretty well behaved and did not dither on their choice of costume–the younger one wanted to be a knight, and the older, who has learned the basic economic transaction of Halloween–costume = candy–didn’t particularly care, as long as it could be worn trick-or-treating. (He got more excited when he discovered plastic ninja swords as a potential part of the costume. There is something about ninjas that goes right to the hindbrain, I swear.)
Kevin, who is either fearless or completely resigned to his fate, plunged into the kid’s Halloween aisle like someone going under the ice of a cheap plastic and rayon lake, muttering about medium and larges and extra smalls and check sizing. I studied the wreckage–things hung on those little metal arms, far more things piled in heaps below, spilling onto the floor and being trampled by frazzled looking moms–and one frazzled, bald, heavily tattooed dad–and backed away slowly, and went to go locate fuzzy socks.
I located fuzzy socks. I also found an end display that would have allowed me to dress the beagle like a lobster or a hot dog with mustard. I begin to fear for our civilization. This is how the Romans went down, you know. One day they were busy constructing aqueducts and then somebody got the idea to put a little toga on the dog and next thing you know, Visigoths were coming over the river and the Senate was having to buy up Greek statues because the Roman artisans were too busy making chicken suits for horses.
The one thing I noted is that Target halloween costumes for women are rather more demure than the ones at the Halloween Store, which tend towards slutty (by which I mean "Is that a skirt or a wide belt?") I am fine with this, actually. This is arguably the best my body is ever going to look, barring plastic surgery–if I don’t get to wear Halloween costumes of this ilk now, I never will, and then I can never look fondly back on my misspent youth. (Mind you, since I’m actually going as an escort to trick-or-treating this year–god help us all–and it’s bloody cold out here, leggings will play heavily into my costume, which will insure a certain modesty.)
Trick-or-treating. God’s teeth. Pray for me.
(And then there’s the thing on Saturday that I’m apparently bartending, but that’s another story and one that I shudder to address although I’m sure I will soon….)