I Came as Myself

A confession, a field guide, and a long look at my own shoes.

Every costume party has one. Someone in their regular clothes, drink in hand, who answers "What are you supposed to be?" with "Myself." Everyone groans a little. Someone in a rented cape rolls their eyes.

I'd love to tell you I'm the one rolling my eyes. I'm the one in the regular clothes. I hate costume parties. I hate them the way some people hate small talk: completely, and while showing up anyway.

So this week, in the spirit of the season, I'm turning the flashlight on myself.

The only person in disguise

Here's what nobody says about the person who came as themselves: they're the only one at the party actually wearing a disguise.

A costume is weirdly honest. The pirate wants to be dangerous. The witch wants to be feared. The sexy anything wants exactly what you think. One night a year, people put their wishes on the outside and walk around in them, and you learn more about your coworkers in one Halloween than in a year of meetings.

The person in jeans refuses to tell you anything. That isn't a lack of costume. It's a costume of normal. And in my experience, people who come as themselves fall into four types.

The field guide

The Contemptuous. Jeans as a position paper. They considered dressing up, rejected it, and want you to know about the rejection. Am I this one? Some nights, a little. I won't lie to you in October.

The Terrified. Not too cool, just too scared. A real costume means being seen trying, and being seen trying is more exposure than they can afford. Not me. I've written an entire essay about wearing sequins to the post office. Being seen trying is my whole personality.

The Pun Defense. A sticky note that says "Identity Theft." A name tag reading "Hello, My Name Is Inigo Montoya." Minimum viable costume, maximum deniability: credit for participating without the risk of participating. Never. If I'm going to refuse, I'm going to refuse with my whole chest.

The Strategist. Coming as yourself is the safest disguise in the room. Nobody photographs you, nobody remembers you, nobody can use the night against you. Closer. Much closer. But that's still not quite it.

Check the shoes

Here's the tell, and it works on everyone, me included: whatever someone says about not dressing up, look down.

The shoes always confess. Good boots on a night they "didn't bother" means they bothered. Carefully broken-in sneakers mean they want you to believe they didn't bother, which is its own kind of bothering. Nobody's feet are neutral.

So look at mine. They're never neutral either.

That's the real reason I hate costume parties. It isn't contempt or fear or strategy. I've been in costume for years. The heels, the color, the deliberate everything: that's the costume, and it's on every single day. A costume party asks me to take off the character I built on purpose and put on someone else's for a night, and frankly the character I've got took a lot of work.

So yes. I came as myself.

Look down. Myself took a while.

There was exactly one place where this never made me the odd one out. More on that next week.