I hate Halloween. I hate the stress of trying to figure out a suitably clever (and appropriate – why is it impossible to find a female costume consisting of more than a square yard of fabric?) costume for the church party, and I hate the creepy hunchbacked butlers with shriveled green skin that spring up at the ends of Safeway aisles, and I hate the sheer number of decorations with motion sensors cackling every time someone walks past, and I hate people trying to get me to go to haunted houses, and I hate that there’s an entire holiday centered around scaring other people because it’s “fun.” It is not fun. Not to me.
Okay, I don’t really hate Halloween that much. But living on a college campus means my general indifference gradually hardens into spite over the course of October as I come up against invitations to haunted houses and scary movie marathons, not to mention the fact that everything I buy suddenly has to be black and orange in honor of All Hallows’ Eve. (How many of the scare enthusiasts and costume shoppers even know that’s where Halloween came from?) It’s just such an aggressive holiday, from the costumes to the ABC Family marathons to the people who think it’s okay to practice their scares on random passersby.
I’ve never liked being scared. I don’t think it’s fun, and I don’t understand how, exactly, it is supposed to change my mind on this score to go into scary places and “see that it’s not that bad.” I have been scared before, in fun and in earnest, and I do not enjoy the feeling. The rest of you can go creep through darkened rooms while employees in creepy masks lurk to jump out at you. As I keep pointing out to my friends, if I’m not having fun, you won’t have fun. No one will enjoy having to physically carry me back to the car as I sob because I barely made it two steps into the creepy house before I decided it was too much.
Sidebar: I also dislike rollercoasters. Once, when my friends and I went to Wild Waves, they got me all the way up to where you get into the seats – and then they let go of my arm and I ran down the wheelchair ramp.
And then there’s the fact, as my mother has points out, that this is the one day of the year when we actually encourage children to take candy from strangers. Who decided that was a good idea? I prefer to buy my own candy and consume it at home, on the couch, watching something cute and not at all scary, without having to put on some kind of costume.
But then again, it was after the church Halloween party freshman year, watching drunken bumblebees and sexy nurses and a few vampires stumble by, that the Engineer and I started dating. And it was a friend’s Halloween party the next night that became our first activity as a couple. (I, nerd that I am, was Schrodinger’s cat in a sparkly black dress and mask. We arrived separately and grinned like idiots at each other all evening until he walked me home and put his arm around me.)
So maybe there are a few good things about Halloween.
After all, all the dark chocolate goes on super sale the first day of November!