My favorite part of Halloween is when it’s over.
Does that make me a witch?
Last night when I heard the tiny patter of costumed feet on my steps my first reaction was to turn off the porch lights and sit in the dark. I have become the old man in my childhood neighborhood whose house got egged every Halloween.
Please understand me. This isn’t about a dislike of children, although there are some that are really, really hard to like.
This is about my dislike of masks. I’ve never liked clowns, I don’t like masquerade balls, and I’ve never seen Phantom of the Opera. Even half a mask is too much mask for me.
I don’t even like people with fake personalities. You know those women with too much Mary Kay make-up that smile and gush while a tiny little demon lurks behind their eyes. They scare me too.
And Halloween is filled with masks. In fact, Halloween is a cruel holiday for children. To dress people up in scary costumes and make children walk around in the dark and knock on the doors of strangers who may or may not be happy to see them is not a nice thing. Add the neighbors that have “live” scarecrows jumping at you and you have a child’s hell wrapped up in a Hallmark card.
If it weren’t for the abundance of candy provided during Halloween, I would have abstained, even as a child. However, my love for tiny little Three Musketeer bars and bite-sized Bit-o-honeys made it worth facing my greatest fears.
So, if hating Halloween makes me a witch, then so be it. I’m thrilled that we have another year until the ghoulish holiday rears its headless head.