By Leslie Senevey
Do you have a least favorite holiday?
Mine is Halloween.
So what’s not to love about a holiday that revolves around free candy? Plenty.
As a kid, the anticipatory thrill never quite lived up to the actuality of the event. Running around the neighborhood in the dark like pint-sized Black Friday shoppers at Walmart felt closer to panic than pleasure.
The weather rarely cooperated with your costume. Wonder Woman’s leotard and tights didn’t convey quite the same power when covered by a parka. Cruella De Vil’s Dalmatian coat created a whole new meaning for “dog days” when it was 90° on Halloween night. You’d end up either sweating or shivering, and that was before overdosing on chocolate.
Then there were the plastic masks of our childhood costumes, akin to sticking a frisbee on your face with tiny holes for your nose and mouth. You couldn’t see, and you couldn’t breathe, but you persevered in deference to the one night you got to live out your Batman or Cinderella dreams. Forget shoving an on-the-go Snickers in your mouth without breaking character.
For someone born with an already amplified fear factor, willingly running around streets teeming with spooky creatures and masked strangers felt about as comfortable as a girls vs. boys dodgeball game. Wholly unnecessary and a sure bet that someone’s going home crying.
Haunted houses were always a hard no for me. In fact, the only one I ever visited was a homemade one in the neighbor’s garage, and that was enough to scar me for life. The blood splatter everywhere thoroughly freaked me out, even though the whole place reeked of ketchup. I stuck my hand through small slits in a fabric screen concealing bowls filled with eyeballs (peeled grapes), guts (cold spaghetti), and brains (no idea what it was). When I reached in a fourth time, a clammy hand grabbed hold of mine. My shrieks were Michael Myers-worthy.
I never set foot in another haunted house, and I stand by this decision. I have a theory that haunted houses are the perfect place to actually get away with murder. Costumed strangers literally chase you with weapons, corpses are strewn about, people are screaming and running around, terrified. A crazed killer could easily slip in unnoticed and go all Freddy Krueger on someone, and everyone would just think it’s all part of the frenzied fun.
I don’t even like scary movies. I saw a couple of the Halloween films in my youth when I cared about fitting in and hanging with my friends, but can it actually be considered “seeing” the movie when your eyes were closed 80% of the time?
I do have many fun Halloween memories from when my own kids were little. One of my favorite photos from their toddlerhood is of the two of them, cheek to cheek, in their matching jack-o’-lantern pajamas after a successful night of trick-or-treating. As a mom, though, my apathy about Halloween stemmed from the overkill of it all. One costume was never enough. They needed one for the school party, one for dance class, and one for the actual event on October 31, and somehow the same one wouldn’t do for all of them.
Beyond the costume drama, there was the schlep factor. After making the early rounds in our own neighborhood, we’d then have to load up and head out to visit multiple sets of grandparents, usually on a school night, while also assuming the role of candy police in order to avoid post-frat-party flashbacks after overindulgence of a different kind. Then there would still be Halloween hangovers to deal with the next day. I always felt a particular pity for teachers on November 1.
Halloween may not be my favorite holiday, but it does have its sweet spots. For one, it’s hard to hate on anything involving a Twix. Two, it brings children joy. And three, as soon as it’s over, the countdown to Thanksgiving — my favorite holiday — begins.