It is Halloween season, and as always, I hope to be invited to a costume party. So far, my mailbox remains Charlie-Brown-on-Valentine’s-Day empty, but I am hopeful.
Just in case, some costume ideas are in order – if not for me, maybe someone else can get some ideas. This being a political year like no other, I’ll stay away from any of that craziness. That whole scene is scary enough without my participation. If I do end up getting invited to a costume party, it would be in concert with my wife, so it would seem that a couples costume of some sort would be worth considering.
She would probably cast a more dubious eye on the concept.
There are a world of possibilities that go far beyond renting Yogi and Cindy bear costumes (too old school) Antony and Cleopatra (too pedestrian) or Grant Woods American Gothic (too dangerous, see: pitchfork) plus, I am not shaving my head, so that’s another nada. F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald have potential, but Scott was clean-shaven and I don’t think I want to go there, though I could see my wife Amy as Zelda.
In the past, Amy also shot down going as the best couples costume idea that I have ever seen.
Some years ago, I was at a costume party with some friends, and there was a young couple there that nobody could quite figure out at first. The young man was about six-one, dressed in a tight-fitting, dark brown body suit; the woman was a good foot shorter, very petite, and was wearing a snug white body suit stuffed with foam rubber. They each had a rectangular piece of cardboard with dots on them attached to their backs, and periodically they would have people stand back so they could run to the center of the room and embrace. They were, of course, a s’more.
Back on the literary front, I could try to talk her into going as the Venus de Milo and me as Ernest Hemingway, her biographer, billing ourselves as the “Original Farewell to Arms” – though the Venus get-up would probably impair her ability to easily partake in any culinary delights or libations.
We would probably just have to go as separately costumed folk, sans connective theme. In fact, Amy might just prefer that.
There are options, of course.
If I could find a pair of grey long johns and some knee-high red wool hunting socks, I could glue dollar-store Barbie dolls all over me and go as a chick magnet – though with recent political events being what they are, I think I’ll file that one away.
I do have an old, red, shortcut tuxedo jacket that passes as a matador’s uniform – though I would need some sequins or a Bedazzler. That could be fun as the evening progresses and people get a bit more…loosened up. I could walk by with a swoop of my cape and a pseudo-Latin dialect, telling pretentious-sounding people, “That is bull! Ole’!”
Contemplating costume ideas, I took a good look at myself in the mirror and that’s when it came to me: Sigmund Freud! Let the beard grow out a little bit, add some gray, get a big cigar, a pocket watch and a nice vest from Goodwill, then brush up on my best Viennese dialect. I can walk around introducing myself: “Hell-lo. I am Doctor Zigmund, Freud. I understand you are having zum trouble vith your zex?”
There is your conversation starter.
This seemed workable, so I dug up a picture of Freud and then went looking for one of myself to use in this blog post. Taking most of the family photos leaves me out of most of them, so my pickings on the ol’ hard drive were rather slim, and none too complimentary, save one. And there was my costume idea:
Vest, cigar, Viennese dialect – I could wear crinolines instead of pants; very southern in a Freudian slip sort of way.
Or is that mixing too many costume metaphors?
This whole thing is still a work in progress, so I am very open to suggestions. Please act now; this operator is standing by.