All Trick, No Treat

Ibis, Ibis, Ibis,

When I was a child, I didn’t like Halloween because I had to wear a snowsuit under my costume – which ruined all inspired costume plans. When I was too old to trick or treat, I hated Halloween because I didn’t get candy anymore. When I grew up and started adult Halloween celebrations, I hated Halloween because I never had a good time. Literally, my Halloweens, post-age-of-majority, have been cursed. I might remind you of the disastrous Halloween pub crawl of 2010, that ended in Proctor sitting in the hallway of your apartment building, after you screamed at him, after he tried to sleep with me, after I threw up on him twice. During the fighting match, I hid in your closet, throwing up in the toilet that I thought was in your closet. Unfortunately, there was no actual toilet in your closet. (No, the shame hasn’t faded, and yes I’m still sorry.)

In a new city – nay, new country – I thought I might break the Halloween curse. I made plans, I bought a costume, I self-encouraged. The first omen of the horror to come should have been when I fell that morning and sustained a minor concussion (I was climbing without a mat, I fell, I hit my head, I’m an idiot). This bump on the head regrettably didn’t knock any sense into me, and I plowed forward with my evening plans. Starting with excessive drinking of the finest Canadian whiskey (that a budget income can buy). We are pregaming at a friend’s apartment. Enter el rejectoro Caleb. Remember him? He is the boy I dated for 2 months directly after Tommy abandoned me by moving to New York. He turned out to not be in the market for a girlfriend, and we decided to be just friends instead – which was upsetting to me at the time and has continued to be a mild thorn in my side ever since (about a month). We head to the party. En route, me with a dangerously high blood alcohol level and a pounding headache, Caleb chooses his moment to sidle up to me and drop this bomb: “Oh hey, my new girlfriend is coming to this party tonight too. That’s cool though, right, because we are just friends.”

I experienced this information like a cliché of your choosing (slap in the face, ton of bricks, et cetera). I knew then that this party was not going to be fun, but, I was drunk, I was at an ill-defined location in a largely-foreign city, and I had face to save. Gracious until it kills you – my motto. No problem, Caleb, we are friends. Until, of course, Wonder Woman arrives, the party sucks, and I am hemmed in by uninteresting people in a crowded backyard, with no wiggle room to escape the love fest happening in  front of my face. Cue more drinking (whiskey and maple syrop – smart Halloween decisions…). There comes a point in time when I can no longer stomach the dull conversation and the forced witness of a budding new relationship. I whisper to my friend that we should probably leave. He is eager to go also. We exit the party, and when we hit the pavement of the street, I immediately collapsed into a puddle of tears. My friend, chagrinned, hails a cab, gingerly tosses me in the back, and takes us back to his apartment. Where I proceed to wile the night (and the alcohol spins) away in alternative fits of tears and drunk texting. Ibis, you drunkenly called me at some point during this phase of my night. In the morning, Caleb called to confirm that the evening went smoothly and that I was excited for a repeat Saturday night. Was I ever, I intoned.

Rejection is brutal. It involves the pride and the heart – which makes for a dynamite combo of self-pity and destabilized self-confidence. Add hangover dehydration and sleep deprivation. I was
definitely in a depressing rabbithole. However, I skyped with a friend from home, showered, and rallied. Found a skimpier costume, locked in my attitude at a healthy place, and headed back into battle.

The Saturday party was significantly better, in that the people were friendlier. Still not interesting per se, but much nicer. As an added bonus, three boys at the party converged on me as a creepy triumvirate of admiration. Let me be clear, I am not one to inspire a following, I’m not attractive above the average in any ways, and yet. (They were engineers.) Bless their hearts, they breathed some life back into my deflated ego. Wonder Woman arrived, on cue, at exactly the point where I thought the night might have a chance at being fun. While hating myself intensely, I chatted to her pleasantly, in a friendly and warm manner. We all went dancing. From here, the night is not worth recounting, really. I had fun dancing, I danced with the party attendees, who were fun but unexciting. I tried to avoid looking directly at the train wreck of Caleb-Wonder Woman on the dance floor. I thought all night of saying to Caleb, pick me, choose me, take me home tonight – and then didn’t, which, go me (!). I did send him a text the next day saying “Hey, despite the sting of you wanting to take Wonder Woman home last night instead of me, I had a great time dancing. An excellent night out, thanks for the impromptu party!” He ignored the meat of this text and blathered on about sports news (classic sidestep, he must play chess). All in all, this is a long story to say that, singleness has its ups and downs, and Halloween was a down. I’m not sure if it is Caleb or my ego, but something made me hurt and upset that he had moved on to the next one, while I had not.

You fake friendship with an ex until you make it. A little crack in the fake facade, but, I suppose that will happen.

We are having dinner Friday night – don’t read into it.

Spoonbill (in costume as a Canadian)


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