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Saturday
Apr272013

While Cleaning (And No, I Wasn't Wearing The French Maid's Outfit)

So I’m dumping the box of Halloween costumes out on the floor, and… there wasn’t much there.  I don’t mean there wasn’t a great deal to choose from--we’re talking fourteen year’s worth of costumes here—but… there wasn’t much there.  For a person who rather recently passed four Halloweens in northern Indiana, which is not particularly known for its balmy late Octobers, there wasn’t a lot of coverage going on in these costumes.  The total square feet of material in the lot of them could have maybe sheltered a six-pack of Tic Tacs.

The dance hall girl, the adorable ladybug, Mary Beth the French maid whose ancestry is thoroughly German:  They were all here.  I regarded one gauzy skirt with particular interest, holding the material at arm’s length between my thumb and forefinger …which one was this a piece of?  Oh, wait, there’s the matching gold bra.  I believe the proper term is “exotic dancer.”

You can get away with this, when you’re nineteen and very, very chemically enhanced.  Past 30?  Please no.

I think we can officially file this feminine practice of celebrating the vigil of a major Catholic feast day by tarting it up with the Bureau of Double Standards, Irony Department.  You don’t see guys trolling the bars any less covered than normal; if anything, they’re blessedly more enclothed, what with the pirate hats and the pimp boas and the occasional cape.  But women?  Women put on a bodysuit and a headband featuring tiny cat ears and wonder why we aren’t President yet.

Speaking as a person whose primary day-to-day wardrobe consists of soccer shorts and unkempt hair, it is understandable, from the grown-up distance of owning a double broiler and a coffee table and a whole bunch of debt and everything, that we might want to tear up the inhibitions and pull down the neckline.  

Last night, while shoving the Box O’ Sex Kitten back into storage (economic times are tough; it may yet come to strip-o-grams, so perhaps it’s best to save the finger cymbals for a rainy day), I came across a pair of stilettos I bought for the express purpose of accessorizing the French maid get-up.  I wore the outfit to a dance during my senior year in college, and after four hours of shuffling about to innumerable rounds of “Thriller” I physically couldn’t walk to the bus stop without stopping to rest and cry every four feet.  Haven’t worn the damn things since.

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