Hallow’s Eve always bring a sense of mystery and mischief to my house. But this midnight after Halloween has come and gone with far to little spookiness in our quiet home. The only thing frighteningly active at this hour is my mind. It churns out idea after idea for columns, blogs and ways to ensure reality stars stay married longer than 72 days.
Some of these thoughts, I should write about. Others most likely should stay in the deep recesses of my brain; somewhere between the memories of the hot pink polka dotted dress I wore to the eighth grade dance and my 1989 “Holy Crap That Chick Looks Like Mick Jagger” haircut.
So at this witching hour, I feel something brewing in my flat chest that needs to bubble out like stale pus in a popped blister. What has me all a flutter? Lately, I’ve seen numerous posts about women’s Halloween attire nowadays being quite scant. I wholeheartedly agree. In fact, it has become difficult to purchase a flattering costume that doesn’t show a lady’s London, France and a portion of that Aussie country from Down Under. When the only non-skin baring regalia I feel comfortable wearing around my kids are a dead Michael Jackson costume or a pregnant nun, there’s a problem.
However, I must say I also have an issue with so many people verbally insulting women for wearing these barely there get-ups. Comparing people to hookers just because they decide to show some skin one day a year really does little to advance our overall cause for equality. Women argue that the ladies that wear revealing clothes have poor self worth and reduce all females into mindless sex objects. I call bibbity bobbity boob.
If a woman feels comfortable enough in her own body to sport that costume, then more power to her. What really hurts the female image is defining a woman by what she wears instead of what she does. I might not like and most likely wouldn’t purchase some of these ensembles, but that doesn’t give me the right to degrade it. Hell, I can’t wear a bikini for more than 12 minutes at the pool without crafting a temporary sarong out of a Transformer’s beach towel. Who has the low self esteem now? Oops. I shouldn’t be proud of that…
Coming from experience, most of the shimmy shimmy cocoa puff costumes I’ve witnessed look nothing like prostitute fashion. And I’ve seen some prostitutes. If you haven’t sat and sipped coffee under a perfect Waikiki night while watching two ladies of the night try to pick up some Japanese Johns, then you truly have never lived. I could barely solicit an 80-year-old Filipino woman to snap a shot of my family at the beach. And I had to pay her a five and didn’t even get a handshake. Maybe I need to start a Hooker Vogue so that the ladies in the future have some basic wardrobe norms and don’t easily get confused with sorority girls from the local college campus Halloween parade.
All and all, females should be able to wear what they want for Halloween whether that be a delicious devil or a potato sack hobo. So, women of the world, treat each other with fairness and objectivity. Let’s tear each other down for other meaningful things like having a filthy house or how we raise our children. Maybe that’s the best midnight idea after all.