I’m not like a lot of girls that I’ve met in my life. People look at me like I must be out of my mind when I tell them I’m not all about getting married and having kids. It’s not that I don’t want those things…. if they happen, they happen. That’s not what I’m living for. My ultimate goal in life is to see as many things, and meet as many people, and go as many places as I possibly can in the short time that I’m here.
My parents (and many other people I’ve talked to) think this is preposterous. I don’t happen to care.
First off, I’d like to applaud those who didn’t dress up like a skank/whore/slut/ho/etc for Halloween. It’s not hard to come off as easy, but it’s not hard to be classy either. Congrats to those who didn’t show off their midriff, congrats to those who didn’t show half of their boobies, congrats to those who wore shorts/skirts at reasonable lengths (I saw you at the party girl-in-the-sailor-costume…I also saw your ass hanging out T_T).
You know that scene in Mean Girls when Cady walks into the Halloween party and she’s legitimately dressed up in a Halloween costume (ex-wife, remember?!) and she walks in and all the girls are dressed up as slutty versions of CUTE things? She personally didn’t feel paranoid about her costume, but every single slutty girl at that party looked at her different just because she didn’t look like the rest of them.
Got that scene in your head?
Now instead of Cady, insert me in my Chola costume. I was wearing leggings, a wife beater and Allen Mark’s plaid shirt. No boobies, no midriff, no booty, no nothing and I promise you as I walked into that party, I automatically felt out of place. I was a legitimate CHOLA I tell you!
SO LEGITIMATE in fact, that when a guy accidentally elbowed me while he was getting his drink, he apologized to me like he was actually scared of me. ”Ohmygod, I’m so sorry. I swear it was an accident! I cannot stress to you enough how sorry I am. I’m sooo sorry!” I don’t blame him, my chola make-up job was pretty crackin’.
Just a few thoughts:
Why is it that come Halloween, the standard costume for a female consists of high amounts of skin and low amounts of actual clothing.
Are fishnets and corsets ALWAYS necessary?!
WHY WHY WHY do girls have to taint such CUTE things on halloween night?! Really, you’re a bunny/kitten/puppy/Dora the Explorer/Blue’s Clues/Pikachu/etc.?! I’m pretty sure Dora the explorer didn’t have cleavage that basically hit her chin and bunnies don’t wear ruffly panties. Oh, and just because you wear a yellow tube top, brown booty shorts, put red circles on your cheeks and wear yellow pointy ears does not makes you Pikachu for Halloween. It just doesn’t in my book.
HELL, if I wasn’t lazy/had money I would’ve gone with my original idea of being Rosie the Riveter. She represented the workforce of women who took on the jobs of their husbands and brothers when they were off fighting in the war. She represented the strength of women and their independence and their ability to do the same work that men could…that we were indeed not inferior to men.
I want to applaud Gloria for being a cavewoman, but for not showing of her boobies. I want to applaud Annaliza for being a zombie…not a slutty zombie. I want to applaud Christine and Sheila for their zombie cheerleader costumes. I saw your pictures on Facebook and you guys looked so good! They were wearing actual Mt. Pleasant and Silver Creek cheerleader outfits. So good!
This reminds me, I think I’ll be Quail Man next year :)
You know what, I agree with all of this. Fuck this shit about “Oh well its Halloween, its the only night you can get away with looking like a slut and nobody will say anything.” No fuck that. If you dress like a slut on Halloween, YOUR STILL A SLUT TO ME.
There are two types of girls in this world: those who are the perfect, timid matriarchs born only for marriage - the bread-and-butter kind of girls who carry family photos of distant cousins in their wallet and will do everything in their power to avoid an argument - the girls who sit crisscross applesauce on their twin-sized bed and daydream about wedding dresses and first kisses and plastic pink dollhouse homes. There are these small-town girls with their quiet smiles and television dreams, and then there are those who are wild.
While the small-town girls are daydreaming about Tupperware parties and joining the PTA, these concrete goddesses are taking off their heels and jumping carelessly into public fountains. They are dancing wildly to live music, whether it be pulsing trance or cafe jazz, and wearing hand-strung popcorn necklaces as crowns. These swinging cafe-au-lait kind of girls belt out karaoke standards without missing a beat and scribble little crumbs of encouragement on bathroom walls - they slip in and our of our world, cart-wheeling and backflipping through life, and the tragedy is that sometimes we only notice their presence when they’re gone. Sometimes they fall into our laps as best friends and curious strangers. Sometimes we are those wild girls.
We are the ones who will always sing, even when nobody’s listening. We are the ones who will never hesitate to ride loop-de-loop roller coasters, no matter how daunting they may seem. We are the ones who will never be afraid to speak our minds, and we will do whatever it takes to change the world. Others may never understand us - the simple girls will stare scornfully, scratching away our encouraging graffiti with a manicured nail, but these shortcomings never seems to faze us - until it comes to the matter of love. When beautiful boys are involved, boys who thrill us and chill us and yet could never begin to comprehend us, the whole world begins to slow.
These boys with their expensive watches and stunning punctuality, they are afraid. They see who we are and what we have, all of our madness wrapped up neatly in lace and tulle, and they realize that they could never tame us. They know that we, with our ever-changing nail polish, would never rear their perfect Oxford child - that we, with our dreams of baking cupcakes for notorious authors, could never settle to be part of a conventional family. In us they see instability and calamity - they fear the fact that we will never submit to their American dream. And so they run. Even those with love in their hearts still run, tumbling towards unwed sweethearts in Lily Pulitzer sweaters. And these silly boys settle down with sleepy girls that we will never understand. And we are left standing barefoot in pubic fountains. Or star-struck on that karaoke stage. Or staring blankly at a bathroom stall with pen in hand. We realize that love has eluded us, tricked us, shattered us with its fickle sense of humor, but maybe we are the ones who have been doing the eluding. Are we wrong in our slam-dancing ways? Have we become too much to handle? Somewhere along the highway of life, have we made a wrong turn and somehow forgotten to change lanes and become simple?
When did love begin to dictate who we are and not the other way around? No matter how lovely or sweet those dashing boys are, sometimes we just have to accept that we are too wild for them - too complicated and untamed. At the end of the day we have to ask ourselves, is it better to be loved or free?
We may be unconventional darlings, or gothic prom queens, or mysterious concrete conquistadors, but we know what we have, and we will always embrace it, no matter the heartache it may bring us. Because we are wild. We are free. And we are not afraid.
