Skipping Halloween

Can one be a humbug about Halloween? I guess so, because that's me.

Not that there haven't been great Halloweens in my past. The year my five-year old asked me to make him a King Tut costume was a good one. He was so happy in his fake bejeweled collar, he wore it until Christmas. He loved explaining to ignorant adults who he was. His grammar school years were fun, too. Mostly because the entire school would march up Main Street in their costumes. I especially enjoyed his first grade teacher dressed as a nun. She was, however, missing the ruler so many of the nuns who taught me wielded.

As a kid, our costumes were made from bits and bobs around the house. I never had a handmade or store bought costume. We just made outfits out of old clothes or boxes. I can recall one spectacular robot made of boxes covered in tin foil. I also remember being very confused when a kid told me he was going as a bum. I only knew one definition for that word—as a synonym for a person’s behind. You can imagine what my fertile 8-year old mind conjured up!

I don’t like to be scared. I don’t like horror movies or books. Stephen King creeps me out. While I don’t mind gore (although I have the remote ready during shows like Dexter and True Blood), being scared is not my cup of tea. I remember having to leave the theatre several times during the Clint Eastwood movie, Play Misty for Me. Things just got too tense for me. And I’m still scarred from Wait Until Dark. I can’t imagine deliberately watching Halloween or Scream.

So convert me if you can. Most likely, I’ll get out of the house for a few hours Monday night and avoid Halloween all together. Bah, humbug.