I know Halloween is over, but I hope you will indulge me as I share this little story about the predicament that had me trapped in my costume into the wee hours of the morning, post-Halloween party.
There, that got your attention, didn’t it?
You see, I decided to purchase a costume this year. I wanted to be a killer bee. It wasn’t exactly original, but it was convenient. I searched the Internet and for reasons I am too embarrassed to admit, I ended up on the webpage of a popular adult store, (yep, one of those stores where the toys need more batteries than anything Mattel ever created).
Great, the closest thing to a bee outfit was some sexualized tart outfit. Is it my imagination or has Halloween become a perverted excuse to be nearly naked instead of a celebration of the marvelously macabre? Desperation negated necessity. I wanted that outfit.
I wish you could have seen the Carpenter’s face when I asked him to stop at the adult store on his way home from work. It’s a little different than the usual request: “Honey, can you bring home milk?”
That day was the most fun I have ever had texting my poor husband. Determined not to ask a sales person for help, the Carpenter was texting me details of two possible bee costumes. His short, to-the-point messages made it clear he wanted to grab the outfit and get out of there fast, but he had me on the other end of those texts, making it hard for him to choose the right costume and find the right size. I’m not sure he was as amused as I was, but he brought home the right outfit.
I had a plan to take that tarty costume and make it a nasty, angry bee outfit. I wore long leggings and boots, put leaves and twigs in an antennae hair band with my messy hair, and used the sleazy pull-up stockings as pull-down socks. It wasn’t as angry as I’d hoped, but it was not embarrassing either. Yet, I had to wear silly little wings with elastic strings around my arms. I must have decked a few strangers with my wings on the dance floor.
After a few hours at the Halloween party, the wings started to hurt. A very nice lady found me, a very frustrated bee, in the ladies washroom wrestling with my costume, trying to get free of my wings. I was at a loss of how to be a bee without them, but I couldn’t bear it any longer. Her solution? Tie the wings to my bra strap. Brilliant. She fastened the elastics tightly to my underclothes and no one was the wiser. No more pain. Moments later the Queen bee was back on the dance floor, winging it.
Somewhere after 2am, that strategy didn’t seem so wise. I was trapped. I couldn’t get the bee outfit over my head nor could I step out of it. I was tied in, tight. Even if I could reach, I couldn’t untie the knots. I was a hostage in my own costume.
The Carpenter was unable to assist in my dismantling due to celebratory consumption of Halloween-themed beverages. So there I was, a ridiculous, hostile black and yellow-striped catastrophe, wrestling myself in the dark.
I will spare you the details of how I got free but suffice it to say, no bees were harmed in the making of this story. No Carpenters either.