I hate Halloween. Always have, always will. Each September, as stores presumptuously start with the pumpkins and the cobwebs and the nonsense, a part of me dies a bit on the inside. And not in a cute, Halloween, dead kind of way.
I'm a naturally scared person you see. One who, as it is, seriously thinks it should be illegal for horror films to play trailers on tv. And honestly, some suspense thrillers too. Censorship at its finest. And so, the mere fact that it be October makes it acceptable for creepy shit to be hung about, left and right - well, I've no time for it. Oversized spiders strung and tossed around, ghosts hung lazily from doorknobs, cheap decorations crawling in some kind of dollar store disease. And don't even get me started on the costumes.
With a closet as, let's say, enthusiastic, as mine, one would assume that such a dress up day as Halloween would so be for me. Finally, an as-close-as-she'll ever get-to-socially-acceptable chance to wear that silver sequined turtleneck, that Greek fisherman's cap, all those damn fur handbags. But alas, being the ever contrary, no-fun that I am, I've never had even the slightest of interest in participating in the holiday.
But costumes? Perhaps I'm a priss, but there's no way some Party City, polysynthetic shit is touching this. Just the thought alone's enough to make my skin crawl. Though since we live in a world where unfortunately I often find myself the minority opinion holder, if absolutely cornered into dressing for some festivity, instead of a Halloween costume, I must insist on opting for a Halloween outfit.
Oh, so you just went out and bought a nickel-a-dozen, came-sealed-in-a-plastic-bag-and-still-smells-like-it ensemble set? Enjoy never living up to your full potential as a human being. Just as Karl Lagerfeld has said of sweatpants - "Sweatpants are a sign of defeat. You lost control of your life so you bought some sweatpants" - so say I of costumes.
Not to mention living in the Northeast, I need not be the first to point out to you that Halloween also happens to fall on a very magic day. A most magic, most cold day where global warming turns against us and slaps us in the face with wind and chills the likes of which your autumnally weak self can barely stand, let alone face in a short skirt and high heels. Oh, the joys of womanhood.
But still, I get it. I get that people may find it fun to chat back and forth with their friends over which group theme they should choose. I get that people may find it fun to embrace the silliness of dressing completely unlike themselves, of throwing on a wig and a bizarre outfit and acting as if everything's completely normal. I get it.
I just don't get it enough to want to do it.
[Photo via @topshop]