Last minute Halloween party means last minute costume.

I’m walking down the consolidated aisles of Walmart at 7:30 on Saturday night. The costume packages are all 50% off, and the models on the labels are all pre-teen. I don’t think I’ll fit in the tights of this Batman costume, and this vampire cape only goes down to my waist.

I’m suddenly struck with a fit of nostalgia. Remember that time when I was at that party with Becky, who was wearing a witches mask, trying to engage her in a conversation after we met at the Honest Lawyer¹? Remember when we went as Supertroopers to the party at the girls house? Remember when I got drunk off that bottle of Earnest and Julio Gallo?

I hurriedly grab a black cowl and bloody knife, and walk to the checkout line. With my full-length leather trench coat, I’m hoping it’s enough to gain acceptance to the party, but not too much to stand out.

So the plan is to get there early. That way I don’t have everyone looking at me when I walk in the door. Bail when it gets too loud, or the people too drunk. But everyone invited through Facebook was told eight while I was told nine, and I’m almost last one there.

This is not going according to plan. I remind myself that I’m in control, and can leave when I want. This is enough to get me through.

Greeting me at the door is Ramsey, Trolley’s six-month old pup, who already knows how to sit and play dead. Too shy to look around and make eye-contact, I pretend to play with him until Trolley picks me up in the hallway.

Princess Leia offers me an orange vodka Jello shooter. I take one, my first taste of alcohol in over two years. It burns in my stomach within seconds, and I fight back my anxiety. Successfully. For good measure, I eat another California roll to absorb the vodka.

Downstairs, we watch The Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Beginning. Strange how horror movies are…humourous when you’re sitting on the couch with a mafioso, a fairy godmother, and Raggedy Anne and Andy, while a group of girls dance upstairs. Everyone’s picking apart the plot holes, including Jordana Brewster’s anachronistic low-rise jeans.

It’s all cliques and couples here. I’m the only one by myself.

To hide this fact, I walk around taking pictures. A pirate offers to take a picture of me with my camera, but only with the girls dancing in the corner. I feign complexity of the camera so I don’t have to sidle up to a bunch of female strangers, and randomly break into their dance circle.

Before long, I notice that I’ve been there for longer than I planned. But I’m getting old, and nine is too late to start a party. I realize that Halloween still exists during the quiet drive home. It’s not about the candy, or the youth, or the trick-or-treating. It’s the spirit.

And if that spirit means dressing up, decorating your house, and getting drunk if necessary, then that’s fine by me.

1. If you ever read this Christine, I will deny everything. [↑]