When I was a kid, my mom made all my Halloween costumes.  In like a Pinterest-y way before anyone else who didn’t know me could weigh in.  I was a mouse, a majorette, a bag of M&Ms and a princess.  Okay, I was a princess three times.  Fine, four.  I liked Halloween as much as any kid with a penchant for dress up and access to sugar.  I also liked when my mom would volunteer for class parties and the teachers would give off an atypical “let’s-party-instead-of-work” vibe.

In fifth grade, everything changed.  I was four houses into trick-or-treating with my neighbor after school when I saw two boys from our class headed toward us.  One was shaking a can of shaving cream and the other was grabbing an egg from a carton he was holding.  They were both smiling.  I had a pretty good idea about what might happen next, but it still felt very unpredictable.  I liked order and rules and being reliable for both.  I had a penchant for singing “trick or treat” so that you’d give me a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup or something else that I’d trade for a Reese’s later.  I didn’t vibe with shaving cream.

In the periphery, I could see two first graders dressed up like superheroes and a toddler dressed like a polar bear trying to navigate the sidewalk and the weight of a plastic pumpkin filled with candy.  I felt instantly that I had to step aside or run the risk of being associated with these two bozos who were about to ruin it for the little kids.  I ran home and gave up Halloween in the same way you might take off a raincoat the second you get inside from a torrential downpour.  Urgently, uncomfortably and slightly disgusted.

When middle school started a couple years later, there were a dozen or two kids in my school who continued to dress up with verve year after year after year.  I never paid much attention to them, other than to think it was weird that they liked Halloween so much.  I’m sure I made fun of it.  And them.  Even if only to myself.  I had one close friend, Megan, who talked at length about her love of Halloween.  Like Christmas kind of love, which was my only barometer for holiday excitement that seemed broken every time she talked. 

Love Halloween?  Don’t take this the wrong way.  But…why?

So, you’ll be as surprised as me to find out that five minutes ago, at 43 years old, I tried on my costume for this year’s Halloween party that I’ve attended 10 years in a row.  Let’s just say that my October social calendar in adulthood didn’t exactly turn out like I thought it would. 

Don’t get me wrong.  It was fun to dress up like a princess as a kid, but by a certain age with the right dress and lipstick, you’re halfway there.  And candy is literally everywhere.  There’s sugar in ketchup.  I figured a couple years in college as a sexy ghost would get me off the hook.  Then I’d be home free until I had my own kids to dress up as polar bears and superheroes.

Much to my dismay, a lot more people love Halloween than anticipated.  And they are everywhere.  Inviting me to stuff. 

I recently heard Taylor Swift say, “I don’t think you should have to apologize for your excitement.  The worst kind of person is someone who makes someone feel bad, dumb or stupid for being excited about something.” 

You may or may not go to Taylor for life advice, like me, but her words are ringing over and over in my ears as I write this story about why I dislike Halloween.  And why, right here, halfway through my story, it’s turning into something totally different. 

I have very few memories of what I did for Halloween from ages 12 to 30.  What I do remember, reverberating throughout every forced celebration, was this little voice inside of me screaming, “put up a fight!  Stay home.  Opt out completely.  And tell them over and over that it’s not worth celebrating.”  Sometimes the little voice didn’t stay inside of me.

But more and more over the years, I heard this other voice, wondering, “why do I care so much?”

Does it have something to do with my babysitter watching Friday the 13^th when I was 7 and the terror I felt with my face in a pillow on the other side of the room, because I was too afraid to go upstairs alone?  Is it because trick-or-treating when I was 8 meant being forced to walk up to the porch with the “stuffed scarecrow” that would inevitably come to life and scare me as I rang the bell?  Is it because I agreed, reluctantly to see Scream with my high school basketball team but could only do it if I sat with my hands over my eyes the entire movie? 

There seems to be a popular, meaningful difference between real fear and fabricated fear that is celebrated in pop culture and specifically on Halloween.  I mean, not to me.  I dislike both in equal measure.  Real life fear and fabricated Halloween fear feel the same in my body.  I have no memory of enjoying the feeling of being afraid.  I’m uncomfortable with the image that just appeared when I Googled “horror film box office records” to confirm what I know is true.  People love scary movies.  As long as they tick both boxes of not-enough-information and tons-and-tons of-unpredictability that magnifies any scary situation.  Even if that situation is just a can of shaving cream and a dozen eggs.   It’s worth noting that these qualities do not negatively impact joyful situations.  For instance, if I walk into The Christmas Tree Shop and someone says, “I see you eyeing what’s inside already, you might never leave!” I’m feeling way different than if I walk into a Haunted House and someone says the same thing.

I’ve celebrated the “last time I’m ever dressing up” every year since 2001 and yet, somehow, somehow I’ve been dressing up for more years than I haven’t.   

But you know what’s not happening at Halloween parties into adulthood?  Pretty much anything scary.  And the only unpredictable outcomes I’ve witnessed is laughter and silliness and spending more time than I ever thought possible on my own costume.  Sure, I continue to play the person who doesn’t like this holiday, and true, it’s not my favorite.  But this year I painted my nails red, white and blue because I’m the American flag.  Even the Whos down in Whoville would have called me out for that.

Earlier this year, I went to a Mets Philly’s baseball game at Citi Field with my husband, daughters and a couple of friends.  Mid game, a pigeon landed on the infield and walked, casually around the grass near the pitcher’s mound.  The pitcher looked unphased, but I just knew he was annoyed.  Move, bird.  The inning ended and the crowd continued drinking beer and watching planes take off from LaGuardia overhead as the teams swapped places on the field.  Then, two men from the security staff began what can only be described as a lukewarm pigeon chase to excavate the bird from the field.  The pigeon ran a little and fluttered its wings but took real flight just as the men picked up an awkward jog.  No matter how high it climbed into the air; it was unable to find an exit.  The open air he was expecting was replaced by the upper deck.  (It’s worth noting that I once got 45 minutes lost trying to find my car after a Lady Gaga concert.  So I know firsthand how hard it is to leave even when you know how.)  As the pigeon landed back down on the grass in the outfield, a growing number of people in the crowd noticed and cheered.  Yeah, pigeon! Was he sticking it to security?  Fighting rising ticket prices?  Or just confused and lost and scared and needing a little support from the crowd of strangers?  Who knew.  But before long, over the remainder of the inning and into the next, the cheers for the bird were louder than for the game.  The camera operator even joined in.  Suddenly the bird was on the jumbotron in between every play.  We were enamored.  Ecstatic.  I remember looking around, while all of this happened and noticing people laughing with each other, pointing out the bird on the field, and throwing their heads back in disbelief when it tried, again, and failed to fly away.  We were all in on this tiny, insignificant moment of what can only be described as silliness.  Even the most diehard fans, who moments earlier were screaming obscenities at the ump for an unfavorable call from their season ticket seats.  Everyone there was faced with the same question.  Demand an end to the silliness or jump in, wholeheartedly?  What was it hurting to laugh along?  To clap and cheer and whistle every time the pigeon appeared on the screen?  To boo the security official who continued to shoo it away.  Nothing.  It didn’t take away from being a fan of baseball.  It didn’t hold any meaning or weight beyond that very moment.  It was just fun.  As adults, we rarely get these opportunities of whimsy.  Unless we seek them out.  If we shoo away the ones that land in our lap (or in our game) then what can we hope for when we really need a laugh or a bit of whimsy? 

I might never know exactly why Halloween doesn’t really do it for me.  But I do know that fifth grade me has been hard at work for 33 years.  And I think it’s time to tell her that that when the whole stadium is cheering for the pigeon, she’d rather be the camera operator than the security guard.  Every time.