My answer is never. You are never too old to trick or treat.
I know it’s unseasonal to write about my favorite holiday, Halloween, when cottonwood trees are trying to kill my nasal passages, but I can no longer deny my friend’s request to showcase him in a blogpost. Because, actually, I do take requests for topics. This particular friend was my son’s ABA facilitator/therapist for a few years. We’ll call him Frederico. Frederico etched a place in the hearts of my family, or wore us out, or wore us down. One of those. He’s been hostile about the fact I haven’t blogged about him these last few years. I did, after all, blog about his girlfriend turned fiancé a long time ago when I offered my body for science and scrutiny. She was a student at Wash U to be a physical therapist and needed a test subject. I volunteered. And truly, Frederico has done a dozen things that have merited mention in the blog for their sheer immaturity and panache. It’s been wrong of me not to share. Today I correct that error. I was wrong, Frederico, to keep the brilliance which is you from the tens of people who read my blog.
Halloween really is the best holiday. The crisp breeze. The messiness of leaves and the capitulation of a sense of order. I call it autumn chaos, though it’s really just an excuse to quit stressing about what I would look like in a bathing suit if I owned one, huddle under a quilt and eat a family-sized bag of Cheetos in one sitting. (Licking artificial nuclear orange cheese dust from each and every finger). A few weeks prior to Halloween, I asked Frederico what plans he had for Halloween.
“I’m going to go trick-or-treating.” Duh.
“That’s nice. How old are you again?”
“Twenty-five. I go trick-or-treating every year,” Frederico said unapologetically.
“Really. Do you go alone?”
“Where are you trick or treating this year?”
“Not sure yet.”
“Do you want to go with us?” I asked earnestly. “I mean, it might look less creepy if you went with actual children, and we have three of them.” I’m not judging. Just being descriptive. Robin Hood might enjoy a side-kick.
Of course Frederico jumped at the chance and showed up early in his gently-used E-bay purchased Harmony Smurf costume. The signature blue qiana nylon smurf outfit fit him like a dream, except in the crotch area which was more like an old-fashioned puckered bedcover. Reactions from my neighbors to a grown smurf telling jokes in exchange for candy varied. (It’s traditional for candy seekers to tell a joke in exchange for candy in my neighborhood. Personally, I don’t understand it. I thought “trick-or-treat” sufficed. The joke rule makes me want to scream “Give me my fucking candy, lady! How’s that for a joke?”)
Some didn’t seem to notice his facial hair and simply put snickers in his bachelor pillowcase without batting an eye. Others asked him if the beer he was holding was part of a Drunk Smurf-themed costume trend. (It was.) Some old coots downright challenged his a-thor-i-tay and refused to give butterfingers to anyone above five feet tall. Seemed arbitrary to me. I mean, if a person is going to go all out and don a proper costume and literally run between houses for candy booty, he deserves a fucking kit-kat bar. Are you with me? Look at the back sweat on this adult smurf! He is working for it!
My kids wanted to go home after an hour touring the neighborhood. Seriously? Suck it up! Are your arms too tired? Does your bag weigh more than ten pounds? No? Then shut it! Trick or treating isn’t over until I SAY it’s over! Harmony Smurf hasn’t gotten enough skittles, bitches! These kids today. They are so ENTITLED. They think tootsie rolls grow on trees. They think people are just going to GIVE THEM SHIT for the rest of their lives because they are adorable and ask nicely. This is not real life.
You are too old to trick or treat when I tell you that you’re too old! Mama needs her 100 Grand bars. “Look, baby, their porch light is on. Let’s go to one more house before we head home. Maybe they have Hershey’s!”