Nope, never too old for Hallowe'en, and neither are you, if you're concerned about it. If not, that's cool. Cosplay isn't for everyone, like, IDK, football or white zinfandel. Some folks just love dressing up and thankfully the eventing world has accommodated us so we have multiple, annual, costuming opportunities, save simply Hallowe'en: San Diego Comic-Con, New York Comic-Con, Renaissance Faire, Tiki Kon, D23, Disney Dapper Days plus myriad other cons, festivals and private theme-parties. Yet, somewhere in between the non-dressers and the over-the-top cosplayers, are the nervous and embarrassed: like folks who pretend they hate Cheetos, or Trump voters who tell their friends they're voting for Biden. To those folks, I say, don't be afraid to be yourself. Cheetos are yummy! What's the worst-case scenario? Someone smirks or critiiques? Okay. So what? Flip your wig nonchalantly, excuse yourself to grab a glass of wine - and a handful of Cheetos - and let them watch you walk away in style. Even so, guess what happens more often than not? You get compliments, lots of compliments. What's the best compliment of all? "Aw, man. Now I wish I'd dressed up!"

There's always someone who just needs to know they're not the only dork in the room. Let me be your guide-dork. I've blazed the dork-trail many a mile. It's not as scary as you'd think. Inspiring others is nice, deflecting snark with grace is a skill, but having a blast just for yourself is the best feeling of all! ... chirruped Pollyanna.

Now, along that dork-trail, I will admit, fourteen is a little old for trick-or-treating, which is when I fielded the "old" query for the first time. Out with two childhood friends, in an upscale, San Diego neighborhood, we knocked on our third or fourth door of the night. A grouchy, Larry David-type opened the door, looked us all up and down, begrudgingly handed over small handfuls of candy and asked one friend, "What're you supposed to be?" sans any hint of humour.

She, laughed heartily and replied cheerfully, "I have no idea! Some kind of weird clown thing or something!" She'd put together her costume at the last minute and it consisted of a rainbow clown wig, wacky makeup and suspenders: just a bunch of crap she'd found at home. My other pal was something sensible, like a doctor or a Disney Imagineer: little more than her school clothes and glasses, but she added her dad's briefcase. (She is, in fact, a doctor today. She may have spent her time more wisely than I, now that I think of it.) Moi was a Victorian, dance-hall girl and, as L.D. stood mesmerized by my early-developed, fourteen year-old bosom, he asked it, "Aren't you a little old for Hallowe'en?"

After that, we returned directly to the will-be-doctor's house and spent the rest of the night giggling, avoiding her überhip older brother, watching It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown and Garfield's Halloween Adventure, and eating sooooo many Morton's frozen donuts. Because, after all, Hallowe'en is all about playing dress-up, laughing with friends, hiding from the hip, eating sugar and watching TV.

Proudly, I can say grouchy L.D. did not affect my spirit, mostly. True, I still have that lingering concern of being the odd one out; be it overdressed for a dinner party, too festive for Xmas Day or, as we speak of here, the only one dressed in costume, even when waiting for the train to Comic-Con or entering a Hallowe'en party. Yet, and far more importantly, that concern has never been overwhelming enough to alter my path. When the night is done, I have always had the best time!

If you have a Larry David in your life, ignore him, or her, and wear what you want. What I did learn in my fourteenth year, sartorially, was that I may have been, as a kindly gym teacher told me, "too grown up to wear certain things until you get to college". (I don't think she realized I was about to start college at sixteen.)

By eighteen, I was on the road to more detailed, sometimes obscure, media- and history-inspired costuming. That was the year of my first adult party, somewhere in Back Bay Newport Beach. There, I started out as Sophia Loren, outfitted beautifully in vintage, 1960s, Italian gear, only to realize nobody knew who I was. Mid-party, the hostess, a.k.a. Cleopatra, took me into her bedroom, dug a short, blonde wig out of her closet and said, "Here, be Marilyn. You have the tits for it."

Because, after all, Halloween is all about how your bewwbz look the best.

 

Happy Hallowe'en, kittens!

Let's see your Hallowe'en costumes! Show me @JennyPopCom (Insta & Twitter)