Now that October has begun, conversations 'round campus tend to drift to one of two topics: the thrashings about to be delivered by particularly malignant midterms, or how folks will be festively garbed whilst getting sloshed this Halloween.
The latter makes this a bittersweet time of year for me. The annual weighing of costume possibilities has become an exercise in psychological torture, an endeavor dogged by doubt and self-loathing; a desperate, grasping attempt to recapture the costume-high from fifth grade.
Yes, fifth grade. It began in the usual fashion, with the exception that my cousin and I decided to try coordinating our outfits. We coursed through the usual round of suspects-angel and devil, cat and dog, peanut butter and jelly-with nothing striking our more off-kilter fancies. Discouragement loomed.
It was then that I sired that which to this day remains the single greatest idea I have ever had. 'Twas an epiphany to end all epiphanies, a bolt of something marvelous tossed from some higher plane of being. For what had dominated the headlines that year but the saga of Tonya Harding, Nancy Kerrigan and the lead-pipe-to-the-kneecap-heard-'round-the-world at the Olympic figure skating trials?
It was utterly perfect: I had the right coloring (and the ill-advised white-trash perm) to pass as Tonya while my cousin had the right coloring (and the handy knee brace) to pass as Nancy. We sent our mothers to their sewing machines while we ardently applied sequins to sweatshirts in a crude yet evocative replica of the actual costumes worn at the time of the incident.
The first external confirmation I received that this was an instance of true jocular genius beyond my years was at my school Halloween party. My classmates and I gathered to adorn ourselves and prattle about that little trollop in the other class dressed as a French maid. I gave my massive trailer-bangs one last floof, made sure the electric blue eyeshadow ascended clear to my brows and picked up my trusty length of PVC pipe.
Though the gold would never grace Ms. Harding, I in her likeness would go on to sweep the costume contest, taking home the prizes for funniest, most original and scariest getup.
The glory multiplied as my cousin and I regrouped and went out to trick-or-treat. Save for the elderly gentleman who mistook us for ballerinas, we were a resounding hit at each domicile we visited. As we headed home with our healthy haul of candy (and plastic fetuses from the religious fundamentalist down the block), I felt truly special.
But, as is often the case in life, it has been all downhill from there. Every guise I've since assumed has paled in comparison. Perhaps we all get one shot at that timely, fabulous, downright magical Halloween costume in our lives and, woe betideth me, mine has been spent.
However, I look forward to seeing those revelers whose time has come among the usual throngs of witches, hippies, soldiers and miscellaneous whores, so get to thinking. Though with current events as they are you may risk being pitched into a pillory by Johnny-boy Ashcroft, at least you'll be detained as an enemy of patriotism in style.
flamingpurvis@yahoo.com.
