The Morning After: Halloween of Horrors
[Everyone’s got a morning after story (though most don't involve a large group of potential sorority sisters) and we wanna hear yours! Send it over to us and we’ll post it – anonymously, of course – right here!]
Freshman year Halloween. Is there anything scarier? I’m not talking about the orange and black jello shots or the DIY strobe lights and dry ice combo favored among frat house basements. No, the part that caused me to break out in a cold sweat and goosebumps was the daunting task of selecting the perfect costume.
After all, there were so many factors to take into consideration- Do you dress to fit a theme with your roommates? (Power Rangers? No. Teletubbies? God no.); do you slut it up and go all out? (Sexy maid? Sexy nurse? Sexy kitten? Overdone.); do you go for the laugh? (Gumby? Michael Jackson? Too much effort.); or do you try to satisfy all these points in creating the ultimate, all-encompassing Halloween outfit?
If you’re a naïve, over-achieving freshman like I was, that’s exactly what you do.
I texted my best friend from down the hall and told her to meet me in my room, stat. She brought candy corn, necessary for brainstorming, and I started Googling everything from “cheap costumes” to “how not to look like a skankwhore but still attract male attention in a good way so maybe he’ll take you on a date at some future time.” Hey, I was hopeful.
Three hours later, with only a lonely handful of candy corn kernels left, we decided on to be (drumroll)…Batman and Robin. Wait. You’re disappointed? You thought this was going to be something epic and super creative? Please. But if you think about it, we covered all our bases: We were a BFF crime-fighting duo, we would be sans pants, and superheroes were funny…after four turns at the ice luge.
When it came time to actually execute this plan, I looked with slight hesitation at the minimal pile of clothing that lay on my bed. As Robin, I would rock with great pride one of those leotards from American Apparel. You know the ones; they barely cover your ass and have super-high cut leg holes. That was it for my clothing. The rest was all accessory items: the signature belt, a fierce yellow cape that may or may not have actually been a plastic tablecloth, black stilettos, and big, sexy hair.
Note to Halloween first-timers: Do a private test run in your costume before you break it out for the big event.
As I writhed my way into that red spandex one-piece wonder, I said a quiet prayer to the dining hall gods above. (Thank you, thank you, thank you for letting me escape the Freshman Fifteen!) After much shimmying in and tugging of fabric, my boobs were contained and my butt was decent. Well, somewhat contained and decent. And then I looked in the mirror and said a second prayer to the gods of bikini waxing (Thank you, thank you, thank you for letting me find that coupon for a 30% off a Brazilian last week!).
Looking more like a Lady Gaga creation than a comic book star, I met up with my Batman and together we headed toward the black lights and pumping bass coming from the Greek Village. And this is where my story gets a bit dicey. I remember drinks. Lots of them. Orange ones and green ones and one that was purple but mean to be black. I remember lots of wedgies every time I went to climb stairs or dance or stand up after sitting. I remember not bothering to fix them after a point. I remember meeting another Robin, a guy, and swearing on our fancy belts that we were soul mates. And then he pulled me by said fancy belt to his room upstairs where I’m pretty sure things got handsy. And mouthy. And probably a little sloppier than is generally tasteful.
When I woke up the next morning, my “soul mate” was passed out next to me with a hickey near his collarbone. Sh*t, did I do that? Well, at least I was on the giving end, not the receiving. It was already going to be embarrassing enough to walk back to the dorm in that horrendous getup; I didn’t need welts on my neck to seal my fate as biggest loser.
I pushed myself to a sitting position on the edge of the bed to search for my shoes and that’s when I felt it. The most intense, but annoyingly dull pain I’ve ever felt…and on my butt no less. Terrified that I had contracted some fast-moving STD, I shot up and ran to check my reflection. It wasn’t a rare strand of herpes, but bruises. Dozens of them. On my ass. It was then that one final memory came vividly rushing back: a group of guys insisting it was fun to “pinch my cheeks” every time I went to the keg.
And by the looks of it, I went to the keg a lot.
Grabbing my wristlet and what was left of my pride, I started the walk home. Bruises out, heels on, hair slightly deflated. It wasn’t one of my best moments, but during the ten-minute walk I came to understand why it’s sometimes less just isn’t more. Especially on Halloween.
[You think that's bad? Check out our other cringe-worthy Morning After stories.]