Halloween. One of my least – if not the least – favorite holidays. And can it really even be called a holiday? I mean, we don’t get the day off work and we don’t exchange presents. What’s up with that? Yet here I am, dressed as a sheriff of all things, wondering why I bothered. Every time someone sees me, it’s ‘there’s a new sheriff in town’ or ‘I didn’t do it!’ as if I’m twelve and will laugh at the same lame jokes over and over. But I’m comfortable and (mostly) warm, which is saying a lot for me. Though I can’t wait to change out of this ridiculous get-up.
My husband, the Halloween-loving, horror-fan-extraordinaire, is home right now, prepping for the night’s festivities. He loves, loves, loves October 31st. We have a garage-full of decorations. Animatronics, fog machines, jumping spiders and everything in between. Which will be on our front lawn sometime between now and sunset, just waiting for the first victim. I mean, trick-or-treater. It’s all in good fun, of course, and our house has garnered quite the reputation over the years as being ‘spooky’ and ‘the one with the life-sized Michael Myers.’ Both true statements and despite my eternal pessimism regarding this pseudo-holiday, I wholeheartedly support my hubby’s obsession. He indulges mine, after all. It’s the least I can do. As is wearing a costume. Period.
This day is good for one thing – it marks a momentous occasion: the countdown to Christmas! Though I have to admit I started waaay back in August. I post the remaining days on my cube wall at work and remind anyone who makes eye contact exactly how much time they have to stress over parties and presents (55 days). I can’t help myself, truly. It’s a disease. Or a compulsion. Much like my husband’s need to make our house look like a Spirit Halloween store threw-up all over it.
I’m a tolerant, accepting person so…to each his own. Which means you can’t mock or judge when I put my tree up with all the trimmings the day after Thanksgiving. Just like I don’t begrudge all you pumpkin-carving maniacs out there your gourds of fun.
We can live in harmony, as long as the chocolate doesn’t run out. Seriously.
I mean it.