I’ve got a yucky confession. I don’t do Halloween. It’s taken years of forgetting, avoiding, and resisting coming up with a costume to realize that I’m a non-celebrator, and it’s certainly not something I’m proud of. I can’t deny it any longer, though.

I can barely dress myself on regular days. To come up with a costume, and a clever one at that, and to do it well is beyond what I can or will do. And because this is the season of parties with prerequisites, it means I stay home. Or maybe it means that I show up to parties where sexy kittens and sexy police officers and sexy Charlie Browns shriek “where’s your costume?!”, but when I know something like that is waiting for me, I mostly just leave ‘er hanging.

I don’t dislike Halloween, not even a bit! I’ve been oohing and aahing and giggling over Facebook all day. Good job, Facebook friends!

I’m just a Halloween spectator. I will cheer for your efforts, and I will never upstage you. Not today, at least.

Laziness aside, I may have my reasons. November starts with the letter M for a growing (ooh, see what I did there?) number of people, and my beloved Scott is one of them. Most Novembers, he participates in Movember while I tap away at Nanowrimo, and if all goes well he ends up with a moustache and a bucketload of donations for the cause, and I wind up with a 50,000 word novel that I vow never to show anyone.

This year, my beloved is stepping into my turf. Luckily, I don’t have the face-follicles to step into his. See, I don’t have time to be scraping off face-paint right now. I can’t spare a minute to comb out a silly wig, or return a rental. I have a novel to write!

I hate winter, but I secretly love November.

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