Words written in my novel so far: 26,107
Miles run today: 3
Baby bunnies spotted on a trail at our local park today: 1
Some people like to wear costumes.
I can’t explain this, just like I can’t explain flux capacitors, why they haven’t yet found the Loch Ness Monster, and why some people in our community would choose Dairy Queen over Goodberry’s.
But I digress.
Last night, I mentioned to my daughter that some friends of ours were dressing up as cows to go to Chick Fil-A today and get a free meal. She seriously couldn’t sleep because she was so excited: for her, it was like Halloween and Christmas in July.
My husband felt the same way.
Give the two of them a costume opportunity, and they are all over it. My husband believes that costumes should be homemade, 100 percent. (And also, he heard the words “free meal.”)
As long as there’s sewing involved, I’m on board. If there is any part of the costume that requires craftiness, you will find me cowering in the pantry. There is not a crafty bone in my body.
So before work today, my husband drew and cut out hooves, manufactured construction-paper ears on a headband and cut out not just round circles for spots, but unique, cow-like spots.
Costuming prowess: why nothing is allowed to happen to my husband. Well, that and the $11 flux capacitor.
As I stood braiding her hair, my daughter asked about my Halloween costumes when I was a kid.
“Hmmm. Bunny, witch, Indian (er, Native American), witch, clown. My mom made me an awesome clown costume.”
“That’s it?” she said, looking at me in the mirror.
“Yeah… I guess. What do you mean?”
“I mean… what about all the other years?”
I wanted to tell her that before the era of Monica Lewinsky costumes and before the year I dressed up as a Black-Eyed Pea (before the Black-Eyed Peas existed) in college with all black clothing and black eye pencil around one eye for the annual college get-crazy-in-the-middle-of-downtown-Chapel-Hill Halloween party, costumes used to be strictly for kids.
“I stopped dressing up in about fifth grade,” I said, twisting a ponytail holder around her hair.
She gave me a horrified look in the mirror. “What?!!?!”
She is going into fourth grade this year.
But then I think about my grown-up husband’s Ghostbusters suit and when he was the Tin Man with silver face paint and a box around him rendering him incapable of using the restroom without completely dismantling all components.
“But look at Daddy. He still dresses up,” I said.
Her face relaxed, and she smiled.
Phew. Crisis averted.
And eight to thirty-one more years of costuming that my husband and daughter get to enjoy together.
What about you? Would the idea of dressing up like a cow make your heart go pitter-pat? Do felt and glue and cardboard keep you awake at night? Would you enjoy a Chick Fil-A meal so much more if you were eating it wearing spots and a braided tail?