The year I dressed as Barbie, was the same year I also dressed as a Unicorn, and one night, as a cannibal. The great thing about college, at least for me, is that the usual Halloween festivities last not just one night but a solid four or five. As a Halloween crazed lunatic I’d roped several of my friends, and boyfriend at the time into what I like to refer to as “The Halloween Tour of Washington”. It started off attending Freaknight (a Halloween EDM festival) Friday night, waking up early to drive to Pullman for Saturday night (a college town 5 hours from Seattle) followed by a trek to Bellingham (2 hours from Seattle) Wednesday night to celebrate the actual day up there. I was taking all online classes that quarter which explains how I was able to dedicate nearly a solid week of my life to dressing up in teeny tiny outfits and parading around house parties. It was all very classy.
Each night of my Halloween celebration got a little out of hand, but one stood out as the worst. Besides fighting with my boyfriend each night and bursting into tears and crying in my car while everyone else ate pizza, Friday and Saturday nights were relatively successful (although I’m sure my friends who got into a car accident at 3am in their rave outfits would tell you a different story). By Wednesday night I was determined to have the “BEST HALLOWEEN EVER” in Bellingham with my childhood best friend, Laura.
The night was going smoothly other than the occasional dramatic meltdown from my boyfriend. I couldn’t be sure at the time, but I had deducted that the correlation between the lack of clothes on my body and the frequency of his hissy fits was a positive one. Much like Miley Cyrus in her “Can’t Be Tamed” days I refused to allow his perceptions of my clothing to affect what I would and would not wear. However, I was still figuring out how to keep his hissy fits from causing me to break into a full fledged psychotic “YOU CAN’T TELL ME HOW TO LIVE MY LIFE” rage. As you can see, it’s best we’re no longer together.
I walked into the Bellingham house party assured my outfit would be a real hit. I had everything from clear/plastic stripper heels, to a skin tight American apparel leotard, to a hot pink tutu and bow. I’d even added pink streaks to my hair. Sadly, I received fewer “OMG you look so cute” reactions and more side-eyed glances and angry scoffs. Being the mature 20 year old college junior that I was, I quickly took matters into my own hands and found myself over indulging in the mysterious pink punch all college parties seem to offer.
One thing led to another and pretty soon my boyfriend and I were fighting…again. He was irritated once again by my lack of clothing and I was irritated both by his bad attitude and by the unfriendly party guests who seemed to be scoffing at me like I was a hooker at a baby shower. My inner sorority girl was baffled by the lack of playboy bunny outfits and other sorts of lingerie with animal ears, while the sweet little party goers seemed confused as to why I hadn’t chosen a more appropriate costume (which in Bellingham means Waldo, or another ironic hipster reference).
In a fit of rage I poured my glass of water onto my boyfriend’s face, a choice I probably wouldn’t have made had I not chosen to partake in the mysterious pink punch. I stormed out of the kitchen, where we had been arguing and he followed into the living room where the majority of party guests stood chatting about indie music and no shave November (or whatever it is hipsters discuss at parties).
The hostility between us wasn’t subtle, if there is one thing I’m proud of in life it’s that I never keep my distaste for a situation a secret. Although my “lover” and I were clearly livid a girl in a unicorn outfit pranced over to me and began lecturing me about how I should and shouldn’t treat my boyfriend. In a more sober state I perhaps may have accepted that this little know it all, although annoying, was correct, however a woman willing to pour a glass of water over someone’s head mid party is not usually a force to be reasoned with.
As the sassy little hipster unicorn continued to lecture me on correct and incorrect girlfriend behavior I had my first ever “out of body experience“. I saw my hand slowly raising up, I saw as it pulled back towards me for a bit of momentum and I saw as it hit the little unicorn against her cheek…but I swear I didn’t feel any of it. The unicorn looked shocked, and to be honest I felt a bit shocked too. Who had just slapped the annoying little thing in the face? Then I realized…it was me.
As I tend to do when I have a problem I don’t have the vaguest idea how to solve I ran away, this time it was upstairs to the bathroom. I splashed some water on my face and tried to convince myself that I hadn’t just done what I had just done. When I realized I couldn’t undo my assault on the poor girl I decided it was best to just act as if it had never happened. I walked down the staircase eager to grab my friend and get out of the party and to the closest pizza joint…when at the bottom of the staircase stood none other than the unicorn.
I paused for a moment. I was inexperienced in the world of girl fights and really didn’t know the protocol for this sort of situation. As I walked by her should I yell in her face? Should I slap her again? It seemed like continuing past her as if nothing happened didn’t really make much sense but I really couldn’t channel anymore irrational anger without more pink party punch.
Embarrassed by how ratchet I had become I left the party without a word to my boyfriend or my best friend. I walked a few blocks, alone (bad call), collapsed on a stranger’s front lawn and lay in the damp grass crying while my boyfriend and best friend wandered around yelling my name searching for me. Real mature, but what can you expect from a 20 year old in a Barbie costume?
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. It was the most ratchet night of my life, I’m not proud but I figured you, my dear blog readers, deserved to know the truth. So there you have it, I’ve sworn off of mysterious pink punch and hipster Halloween parties for good. I think I’m a better person because of it (and I haven’t slapped a girl since).