Except me. And my secret confederates. I take care not to show my satisfaction with other expressions of seasonal grumpiness too demonstrably, lest I be lynched for the heartless nonbeliever that I am--especially in my Hallowe'en-besotted suburban milieu. Weeks ago the signs began to appear, well before the the leaves started to turn colors in earnest. Neighbors put out sparkling pumpkin light strings, fake (but costly!) boneyards of ceramic headstones akimbo, witches, skeletons, Death and his handy cordless Scythemaster™, scarecrows, sprayed-on cobwebs ... parties were planned, and costume ideas taken up and abandoned with frenetic bursts of enthusiasm, doubt, anxiety, and anticipation.
Yuck yuck yuck yuck yuck. I dread it. One more sign that I don't know how to be in my community. I don't have the energy, I don't have the organizational skills, I don't have the fucking time to devote to this. When the Jellybean had interesting and inventive ideas for her Halloween costume, I was pleased on her behalf; but alas, her brave designs to be a ball of fire dwindled, weakened, died; and she is trick-or-treating tonight as a cringe witch. Dressed in black; witch's hat; bright blue holographic nailpolish (we convince ourselves this is inexplicably 'witchy'); fake broom. Full stop. yawn *crickets chirping
Also, we are invited to a neighborhood adults/children Hallowe'en party by one of the moms at the bus stop! Which is fun! And means that after two and a half years maybe we are finally becoming Part Of The Neighborhood! And I don't have to continue to feel like a Suburban Fraud for the Rest of My Life! Because maybe I'm not such a Monumental Freak After All!
I really was glad when Caroline invited us to the Hallowe'en party. When we moved here, I swore I'd become a true municipal citizen. I'd read the weekly paper, and know who the local politicians were, and get involved in civic affairs (whatever that means). Never happened. I still seem to live, at best, week-to-week, and at worst, covering my head in dread of the next hour. I don't feel situated firmly in space and time; have no sense of a foreground and background within which, among which, I dwell. In other words? Faking it.
As the party drew near, it began to dawn on me that we were expected to show up in costume. Howie and I are both costume retarded. We have no ideas; our eyes glaze over when the time comes to figure out how to be oh-so-inventive and get ourselves up in some kind of disguise. So there was one reason to dread the party. I finally suggested, at the latest possible moment, that we could both go as double-nine dominoes. Howie went as 3-8 and I went as 7-9. Just a big piece of foam core in a domino shape, carefully drawn and colored, and hung round the neck with a ribbon--not burdensome. The Jellybean got into her unadventurous, low-key witch costume and we set off for the party three blocks away.
It was everything I don't like in a party. I knew next to no one; the hostess seemed neither especially pleased to see us, nor interested in introducing us to anyone else there; and I was at my frozen worst on my own. I had a total of three conversations, each one more insipid than the previous one, where I quipped such memorable bon mots as, "So how long have you lived in this neighborhood?" and "Ah, I met you at Parent's Night, I believe." I drank some very sweet, poisonously alcoholic punch; ate nasty party foods. It has been unseasonably warm in our region for the past day or two, and the house was stiflingly hot; I started to get slightly ill and pitiable. I paced around the several rooms, making the circuit three times looking for Howie and feeling increasingly unloveable and foolish; finally, I found him in the basement, where a movie (The Haunted Mansion) was playing on a gigundous-screen plasma TV. At least it was cool in the basement, and I found my man. Happily, there were very few people there at that moment; we got to snuggle quietly on the couch in the company of less than half a dozen other people. This could not last. In short order, both kids and adults found there way to the cool-aired haven, and it got noisier and less pleasant. Among those arriving was the daughter of our hostess: a young lady one year older than my daughter whom I'd always regarded as very clever and charming. She seemed to know what was coming in the plot, so I asked her if she had seen it before. "Um, it's my movie for my party, helloooooo!" she replied with an eyeroll, and I began to reconsider my earlier assessment of her merits.
I whispered to Howie, 'Can we go?' and he agreed. We wrestled the Jellybean outta there and I went home, feeling as miserable as I ever have upon leaving a party--including when I was single. This sort of thing just never gets better. I don't want to ever socialize again with people I don't already consider my friends. Life is short.