Haunted by Wretched Halloween Costumes

The fashion glitch no one talks about

I don’t remember my first Halloween costume but I was probably a ghost. My parents were cheap AF and it was 1971. Dad walked us through the ‘hood, making sure we both found our way home.

The safe suburban streets were littered with leaves crunching underfoot, while a nearly full moon cast its iridescent glow.

In that bygone era, you couldn’t mess up a costume because there were only six possibilities and none of them were sexy superheroes.

You had: pirate, ghost, witch, doctor, robot, and skeleton.

Some kid would get creative and dress up as a fireman, then grow up to be a fireman but average parents were not interested in buying costumes — Amazon wasn’t around — and the ones who couldn’t sew weren’t likely to make one.

We made everything from construction paper and Elmer’s glue.

This is why I’m sure I was a ghost or a witch. Given my history, I probably tried to combine the two.

Fast forward to my adult years. I have a lot of costume regrets but this year I’ve been feeling super-duper about my choice.

I’m going as Napoleon Dynamite.

I have the VOTE FOR PEDRO T-shirt and I ordered a nerd wig of curly reddish cast.

I’m wearing Napoleon’s oversized glasses and the only thing I’m missing is the right shoes and a Walkman. Oh — and I’m missing another key element: any semblance of common sense when it comes to dressing up.

It’s a Cult Classic

I told my sister I was thrilled to have a comfy costume that can’t go wrong at the church Halloween get-together.

“Isn’t Napoleon Dynamite kinda old?” She said.

As she is far hipper than me, I took this to heart.

My costume isn’t trendy, but it’s a cult classic. Napoleon is the everyman’s anti-hero.

I spiraled into insecurity because my costume track record is a horror film.

That time I went as a bunch of grapes with balloons taped to me — uh, good luck getting near anyone at a party! Everyone thought I was one of the Fruit of the Loom guys.

Only a few years ago, I showed up as a troll farm — clad in brown and green for the soil and plant life, with farm animals pinned to me.

People tilted their heads and asked:

“What’s a Troll Farm?”

I should clarify, few party guests bothered talking to me. Most people just did a U-turn and headed outside to pretend to smoke a cigarette. I stewed with mild resentment at the uber-hip pop culture icons mingling in my midst.

My history of costume faceplants reveals a person who is trying hard to be unapproachable.

Feeling insecure with very good reason, I asked another friend about going as Napoleon and he reassured me it was fine. We’ll see about that, buddy.

The All-Purpose Dog

Meanwhile, my friend Luis explained (as you would to a dim-witted child) how to dress up with less hassle, and spend less money. He bought a decent dog costume and wears it every year.

Everyone likes dogs, and it’s warm for those chilly Halloween nights!

My costume this year won’t be snug, but I’m more concerned no one in my church will know who Napoleon is. This is not a group of cinephiles or pop culture addicts and the average age is 78.

I’m judging the costume contest, so I’m hoping that’ll confer minor clout.

Who am I kidding? My fabulous nerd get-up will crush me under the weight of a history of badly implemented costume ideas.

I need professional help, so why do I keep trying to fix this myself?

Yeah, I’m bitter, as I recall the time I went to an “inner child” party in what was perhaps my worst costume idea ever.

The Inexplicable Hodge Podge

I wore boxing gloves and scuba flippers, a bright pink T-shirt with plum-colored corduroys. What was I? Who the hell knows?

The guest of honor wore diapers and although I saw him shiver under the icy December stars, it worked.

My husband attached laminated photos of himself as a child. How clever! What a great conversation starter.

Not only couldn’t I hold a drink, but I also couldn’t walk — especially in a crowded room.

It was exhausting, and I’m guessing partygoers thought I’d cobbled together a failed mermaid outfit.

I could’ve just dressed as a unicorn or a dolphin.

What is going on? I’m nearing 60 and I am not learning from my public mistakes.

Now that I write it all down, the memories of tragic costume mishaps are haunting me like the angry ghost of Halloween past.

I shall grit my teeth and white-knuckle it through another spooky season of living with this costume-related impairment.

One costume I’m excited about is the one I’ll donning for my part as a flying monkey in our community theatre production of Wizard of Oz. I can relax, knowing a professional costume designer will dress me up.

If it all goes to hell at the church social, I can always skulk away and sob in the coatroom, wiping up my tears with my afro-nerd wig while the other two judges hand out prizes.