This past weekend, we flew to West Texas to visit my family and to attend the 6th annual, grownups-only Halloween costume party hosted by my brother and sister-in-law, and several of their couple friends. My parents usually attend. I remember the year they won the best costume contest as Old Hippies, but I’m not certain they were actually in costume. This year, however, they chose babysitting our kids over attending the party with us. Come to think of it, my other brother also bailed, so now wondering if had something to do with not wanting to be seen with us . . . in the costumes we chose.
Anyway, when Steve and I received our invitation and learned the theme of this year’s party was Twisted Fairy Tales, we first thought of Little Red Riding Hood, with me as big bad wolf/granny (seven other couples in attendance at the party settled on that idea). Then we considered Hansel and Gretel (someone twisted that pair into spiky-haired, tattooed bikers). We didn’t want to leave out Mary had a little . . . ham. Remember Scout’s ham costume in To Kill a Mockingbird? (Come on, read a book why don’t you.)
Then we thought, what about Lady Godiva? Though not a fairy tale, per se, legend has it that the wife of a lord named Godiva, in the 11th century or thereabouts, protested her husband’s oppressive taxation of the townspeople by riding her horse through the streets of Coventry, England in broad daylight wearing nothing at all! And if that lovely naked lady on horse-back, clothed only in her long golden locks were instead a big guy with a hint of 5 o’clock shadow, the fairy tale/legend derails into something . . . well something dreadfully wrong. And that sounded like fun.
Once we had chosen our twisted fairy tale costume idea, Steve visited the ballet store to purchase his full-length leotard, size Men’s XL, then commenced watching his girlish figure throughout the next week, so as to squeeze and cinch himself nicely into it. I, in my supporting role as m’Lady’s horse, would be donning unflattering, plush, and slightly stuffed, equine attire and therefore would need no such discipline.
On the night of said festivity, we planned to sneak out through my parents’ back door to avoid our children’s astonished and confused eyes. We failed. Although their father was technically fully clothed — albeit in flesh-colored spandex — and all special areas of his body were strategically hidden by the ankle-length wig, I still hoped and prayed the almost certain damage to their tender developing psyches would not be permanent.
Upon arrival at the party, we maneuvered our way through the pinches to his bottom and the punches to my belly to having an incredibly fun night! (What is it about a stuffed, plush animal suit that makes people want to punch and poke the poor vulnerable human being inside?)
I hate to boast, this to the ladies, but you haven’t fully lived it up until you’ve Texas-two-stepped with a six-foot-three, two-hundred-ten-pound, half-Chinese, former varsity athlete, in blonde wig and nude bodysuit.
Thank you for listening. — Twyla