Vision? Like a horse with blinders.
Oxygen? At about 30%.
Atmosphere? A candy corn-scented fog clung to the inside of the mask.
Mobility? Shoes, a size too large.
Comfort? Hair sweaty and neck officially itchy...
All riiiight! Welcome to Halloween in Kiddom!
Every year, my mother and I looked forward to this special day. And every season, Mom's Singer sewing machine sung with the joy of mad transformation.
While I was in it purely for the candy, my mother, well, she was motivated by something far greater, more noble-- costume design immortality.
With my hometown Halloween contest well in her sights, year after year, my mother concocted new, more elaborate creations destined to imprint our family name in the town annals of Homemade Costume Glory.
The imagination and execution of her work were beyond compare. Material, yarn, paint and chickenwire... it all bowed to her genius.
One year, I was a Cabbage Patch Kid-- fully-encased in footy pajamas crafted of doll cloth and stuffed to dimpled capacity with fiberfill. Once in this suit, backing out was not an option. The chubby mittened hands-- sewn straight to the arms-- and the zipper in the back absolutely ensured that those encased in the Kid, stayed in the Kid.
After I struggled into this polyfiber astronaut suit, I had to "dress" the doll, too-- layering on a smock, bloomers, anklet socks and Mary-Janes. Then top it off with a fully-sculpted doll head and wig.
Needless to say, all liquids ceased several hours before the big event. It was as much for the safety of the costume as for my comfort. Mom was taking no chances.
From inside the suit, I felt like a python's dinner being slowly digested. Sights and sounds were distant and muffled. Breathing was shallow. I wondered vaguely how 'd agreed to this, and how I'd ever thought it was such a good idea. But, then, I wondered that every year.
Mom said it was the price one paid for Art.
Other costumes over the years included Miss Piggy, featuring a homemade mask cleverly MacGyvered from window caulking. The fumes alone in that baby were stronger than any sugar rush...
It also was the unfortunate beginning of all my relatives giving me random pig tchotchkes. It solved their gifting concerns for the next five years.
The year of Mom's Garfield extravaganza allowed me to wield sarcasm and a tail. But logistically, that suit had similar problems to the Cabbage Patch Kid-- complete sensory isolation...
Plus fur.
Then there was Olive Oyl, a costume which left me a refreshing amount of mobility, but the rubber nose which Mom said topped off the look to perfection ("It's just not Olive Oyl without the nose," she insisted, handing the schnoz back to me) was held there with duct tape, and kept toppling off at inconvenient moments.
Like during breathing or walking.
Plus, when you're a skinny, awkward girl to begin with, being Olive Oyl could be said to be embracing your Inner You....
Or, it could be the start of a nickname which your classmates will enjoy for the next two years.
Now you might be wondering where these costume ideas came from. Well, these costumes were chosen through an elaborate two-tiered brainstorming process the summer before each Halloween.
In Phase One, I would toss out ideas of characters I wanted to be-- like Wonder Woman, Barbie, Batgirl, or Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz...
And in Phase Two, my mother would go through my list and veto them all using her Executive Designer Overrule Power, because I'd be too cold... Or I was too flat-chested... Or because it didn't offer enough creative challenge... Or, most of all, because it didn't have the "wow-factor" contest judges were looking for...
Mom had a sixth sense about these things. She may have missed out on a lucrative career in Hollywood movie casting.
And it was true, the contest competition would be stiff. In the cool autumn air, as leaves twirled in the New Jersey post-dusk mist, we'd stand among the ranks of our fellow masqueraders in Mom's latest fancy-dress inspiration...
And we'd find ourselves chatting with a large bunch of grapes... or a fish in a bowl... or a crystal ball on a table... or, oh, a wedge of cheese. Each one had potential to seize the gold, depending on the mood of the judges.
And we'd wait nervously for our turn on the costume catwalk.
The year of the "Nightmare on Sesame Street," as it's come to be known in my circles, Mom's creative spark spawned two lovable Muppets. My mother made her costumed character debut as Bert this Halloween, and I-- the shorter-- was Ernie.
The night of this costume contest marked the first time my mother shared directly in the anticipation... and the visual impairment. ("Wow, it's really hard to breathe in these things, isn't it?... And where'd your father go? Oh... he's right here. My mask got twisted.")
It seemed a strange sort of Universal Balance had finally been struck. I didn't know what the word for it was at the time, but if I did, I'd have told you, it was "closure."
Or possibly "poetic justice."
Either one was acceptable.
Yes, indeed, that night we took home the first place trophy with joy in our hearts, the Sesame Street theme song on our lips, and a bag full of candy in my hands.
So with neighborhood trick-or-treating still on the orange harvest horizon, life seemed simply filled with mind-boggling, nerve-tingling, tooth-rotting possibilities....
Little did I know, that in less than 24 hours, my friends and I would find ourselves learning a childhood lesson we would never, ever forget.
Ah, but that is a story for tomorrow, my friends...
I hope you'll pop by for Part Two of Nightmare on Sesame Street.
(Update 9/24-- Click here for Part Two.)
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