A Girl from Pluto Ep. 11

          

This series will contain posts styled as a memoir with memories that I feel like sharing. I first wrote these articles in 2017 when I was suffering from burnout. I may post one or two a month. I hope you enjoy these intimate glimpses into the life of...

 

Episode 11

I'm a P.I.M.P

I loved Halloween as a kid, and I still do. 

Over the course of my life, I’ve had many different Halloween costumes.

In 4th grade, I dressed as a French maid. It was not my idea. It was my best friend’s mom’s idea. My best friend’s older cousin had the costume and because I was thin and looked like her, they wanted me to wear it so they could take a picture of me in it and send it to her boyfriend and say it was her as a child. (Saying that now…wow. Super creepy.) I was eager to please, though, and put it on. 

Everyone was delighted, and thought it was cute, but as we walked around the neighborhood, I became self-conscious. I didn’t wear skirts or spaghetti strap shirts. I was a modest little thing, and I felt too sexy for a nine-year-old girl. I had on black tights, but the skirt was puffy and flouncy. I kept thinking the people of the houses we were knocking on looked at me in disgust. Who would let their daughter dress up as a French maid? That’s what I assumed they were thinking, anyway. And, well, my mom didn’t even know about the costume, so don’t blame her! 

Now-a-days, French maid costumes are for adults who want to dress slutty. Even if the child isn’t trying to be sexy, as I certainly wasn’t trying to be, you can’t help what others, especially men, will think when they see a little girl dressed in such a way. The very thought that I wore this at all makes me cringe.

***

Fourth grade brought my most iconic costume. My mom found a blue and black silk and lace dress at a thrift store that looked Victorian and gothic and fabulous. I wanted it for my Halloween costume, and she bought it for me in the summer!

My best friend and I planned to go to my school’s first Halloween dance. She dressed as a unicorn, a costume she was extremely proud of then. And I had my Victorian dress, but suddenly it humiliated me. I think I was really just nervous about people seeing me wearing it. 

Her mom brought us to the school to get ready early after pitching in with setting up, and my mom met us as we were getting ready. My mom did not know that I didn’t want to wear the dress anymore and found out that I’d stuffed one of my oldest sister’s dresses (a pretty blue silk dress with butterflies on it) in my backpack and planned to wear it instead. The dress that belonged to my sister didn’t even fit me! I’d have to twist the spaghetti straps to make sure it covered my flat, little chest.

My mom refused to let me wear my sister’s dress, so I put on the Victorian dress. Pouting in front of the mirror in the girl’s bathroom, I applied my makeup. 

I stood next to my best friend, seething inside, as we took pictures. In the first one, I was frowning. I knew I was, and I wanted my mom to see it. She ordered me to smile, so I did. I gave a “fine, I’m smiling” smile that made me look a little like the Joker. 

It wasn’t until the most popular girl in our school said she loved my dress when I realized it wasn’t awful, and you know what? I had actually loved it, too. Until I started to doubt it and myself. Truth is, it was stunning.

My best friend and I entered the costume contest. She won first place, and I won third place. Ironically, now my best friend hates the pictures of us from that night because she can’t believe she dressed as a unicorn, something she had been proud of then. And now, I love it. I look beautiful, sneer and all. And the dress made it. Thank you, Mom, for pushing me. She didn’t know that I felt shy about wearing it. She probably thought I was being a brat, but she put down her foot, and I’m glad she did. I have this memory now and no regrets, as I’m sure I would’ve regretted it If I ended up not wearing that Victorian dress.

***

In 7th grade, I dressed up in my boldest costume yet. I dressed up like a dude. I borrowed my brother’s neon green swim trucks and put them on under my red flannel pajama bottoms, making sure to pull down my pants enough to show off my “boxers” as all the boys did back then. I put on one of my brother’s T-shirts and slipped my feet into those huge white and red sneakers of mine. Remember those? The one’s I hated because they were boy’s shoes? Well, they actually came in handy. My golden hair hid beneath a black knitted ski cap. To top off my look, I drew on a beard, mustache, and uni-brow with black eyeliner. 

As we were leaving my best friend’s house I said in a deep voice, “Just call me Christopher.”

Everyone roared with laughter.

What did my best friend dress up as? A ho, of course. And not just any ho. She was my ho! She didn’t have a costume planned until her mom saw what I did and suggested that her daughter be my ho. Yes, really. I can’t make this up. 

I laughed. Okay, sure, go ahead. Truth is, I was glad. My best friend was the one who liked attention from boys and was comfortable wearing “skimpy” things. Me? I was happy to be the pimp.

My best friend didn’t really wear anything offensive, though. She had on cheerleading shorts, a tube top (which was in style then), flip-flops, and hoop earrings. 

This time, I saw people looking at my best friend with questions on their faces. Me, on the other hand, I got laughs. Good laughs. I played my part to everyone, especially to the guys who joined us, one of which was my best friend’s boyfriend who got a kick out of my outfit and my role-playing. The next day at school, he jokingly called me Christopher. I was glad to be a part of an inside joke, and one that I created.

***

Being Christopher the P.I.M.P. wasn’t the last time I dressed up as a guy for Halloween. I was in my twenties when I dressed up as Jeff Hardy, the wrestler. I went trick-or-treating with my sister and nephews and a grown man said, “Look. It’s Jeff Hardy.” I turned to him and gave him Jeff Hardy’s hand signals, which looks like you’re making a gun with your two fingers and thumb and pointing them to the sky. He didn’t say anything to that, and I secretly patted myself on the back.

That’s right, buddy, I’m Jeff Hardy!