(Shhhh.... Is it over??)

Halloween. How cathartic. A bandanna to hold the brains in, a leash to tether me to the barmaid, a tee-shirt that passes judgement, combat boots and pants to match - fine fare on any militant lesbian... all for the sake of a costume. It was rough being that cool. Sadly, the one day of the year I get to break out my leathers, my chains and my BDSM riding crop is over!! Though, in truth, I'm not really a BDSM fanatic. In fact, when my riding crop was lifted by a very sexy Sarah Palin (nope, not the one I walked in with, who knows better than to whip me), I was presented with a conundrum. Here I was, dressed to the 9's in 'tough guy' apparel, and yet I couldn't fathom getting whipped and enduring physical pain on an otherwise bright and cheery night. If ONLY the second Sarah would have consulted the Sarah I walked in with!!! I'm not a TOUGH guy!! Leave me to my delusions and don't take my TOYS!

Regardless, I bent over. Because what ELSE do you do when asked to present your backside to a woman in a power suit?? I played the mantra in my head that I've so far only had to listen to at doctors' offices when getting shots or having blood drawn: "It'll be over in a second, the prick will subside, it's no more painful than every other injury you've accrued playing monstrous sports and being clumsy in the kitchen. Chill! Be COOL! (Deep breaths, watch the needle, control the pain with your super-powers.)"

Back to the dimly lit bar, the overly cute (and overly straight) barmaid (at a GAY bar??), and the 2nd Sarah Palin of the evening... I was ticked! Don't WHIP me! I may be wearing a whole lot of front can't you tell it's all a facade?!!! I don't want to be whipped only slightly less than I don't want to dress in drag and 5 inch heels! (Again)

And what ABOUT that front? In the costume party of life, I now have to say, I think the hardest costumes to pull off are probably the easiest costumes to overlook. It's the label-less, the ill-defined, the hardest to explain: the toothless vampire, the sex-less nurse, the frumpy kitten and the 'cereal killer' without the 4 ounce frosted flakes boxes skewered with plastic knives, that should get the accolades. As only my parents, with three grown kids in three different time zones, a stint abroad and a couple AARP memberships to boot, can put so eloquently, sometimes the hardest thing to do on a holiday rife with facade, is be everything but something else. In response to my overly excited message about my costume, and, presumably, my sister's similarly excited message about hers out in Cali (yeah, we're related), a ten PM text last night from my mother read: "You kids are so cleaver! Dad went as dad, I went as me."

So true! It probably would have been a whole lot harder to go as myself and STILL avoid the whip!! I should just wear a label to define my labels: Butch: yes. Tough: no. Thrilled about admitting this to everyone with a riding crop: Definitely, definitely not.

So next year, in an attempt to regain a sense of self on an otherwise self-less holiday, I'll lose the boots, keep the tee-shirt, avoid the handcuffs... Oh, and I won't bend over for ANYONE. I'm not that kind of butch!!!