Boo Humbug

When I was a kid I had a collection of dress up clothes. I remember most of them pretty distinctly and how they fit my five-year old frame. Really, they were just cast off clothes from my mother, grandmother, and aunts. But to me… they were the necessary instruments to enter the magical world of my imagination. There was a flowered dress with purples and blues and lots of buttons up the front. There was a bright orange peasant type dress, and one of the treasures was a white satin number with ripped black lace on the surface. They were all pretty much 60’s clothes, with shorter hemlines or in the case of the black lace – a little poof to the skirt. But to me… they were the clothes of princesses and witches and extraordinary characters.

I always liked costumes. I’ve been putting on a show since I was able to walk. Costumes are part of that. A chance to dress up outside of the parameters of contemporary fashion. To transport myself to another time, another place, and another person. Obviously, I had my chances in plays and dance recitals (although I wasn’t always excited with fluorescent unitards). And best of all, I spent a few years working where I HAD to dress up like someone from another century. I got to have someone make me a costume out of my dreams. 

Nowadays, I go on the stage less. The museum for whom I give tours isn’t that theatrical. Our costume is pretty much surgeon booties. So, really, my opportunity for fancy dress is… costume parties.

I like themed parties. Whether it’s a character out of time or legend or the theme itself. I can get into that. It sets a parameter, but still offers enough of a challenge to be creative if one desires. Halloween leaves the opportunity for any possibility. Too many possibilities. So many I really don’t care.

I’m trying to think of something to be for a party next weekend. I can’t psych myself up for it. The traditional Halloween characters are way overdone. Honestly, who needs another ghost or ghoul… or even, especially NOW, vampire? So not original. And yet, the original is just as aggravating in my mind. All these esoteric plays on a word or turn of phrase or pop culture. I mean, really, how many boys not in a foil balloon are there going to be this year? Oy. 

Granted, I like to attempt my own esoteric cleverness. But it usually relates to history or literature that no one reads or gets. So what’s the point if I have to keep explaining who I am? I did take pride in my wounded Anne Boleyn outfit a couple years ago. But that was mostly because I got to wear my gorgeous red museum dress. Now it’s been done… and I still had to explain what I was. I don’t really… want to explain what I am.

Really, though, I think it’s just that I’m not excited about putting on a mask. I’ve been so busy stripping away parts of myself lately. I wore masks in so many parts of my life and finally cast them aside. I don’t want to have to think of clever ways to hide right now. 

Well, I have a week. Maybe I’ll be struck with instantaneous epiphany and excite myself with the details. Or maybe, I’ll just have to figure out the costume by which I can be me.