Transmogrification

What do a purple sweatshirt, a scissors, googly eyes and a couple yards of polka dot fabric have in common? My Halloween costume!

Transmogrification -- the altering of appearance into something extremely scary or funny; the donning of a Halloween costume.

Thanks to Squashland Produce
for these amazing pumpkins!

This is the very first year that I have made a Halloween costume. I should qualify that one year in college I did dress up by attaching our dorm clock to a string of beads and stealing a crown from the theatre department closet (I went as Flava Flav), but this is my very first costume involving sewing. And I’m very thankful to my Mom for helping me.

Growing up, we were forbidden from celebrating Halloween as it was a day to celebrate the Devil and as good Lutherans, such as thing would surely lead to apostasy. Instead, my parents gave us bags of “Reformation Candy,” so that we didn’t feel left out.

I never felt left out. I felt superior to the other Christian children running around like heathens, dabbling in the occult. I remember one girl in jr. high who was particularly appalled that I had never gone trick-or-treating and planned on forbidding my children from doing the same. I was equally appalled that a good Lutheran girl would think so nonchalantly of a day dedicated to witches and demons.

Since then, my view of Halloween has changed. The meaning of any day can change over time just as it can through how it is celebrated. Just as Christmas began as a pagan festival of winter, just as Cinco de Mayo today has little to do with the battle of Puebla, just as St. Patrick’s day has more to do with green beer than to do with driving snakes from Ireland, Halloween has changed from its origins.

Some might say that Halloween is worse today than long ago, because bad people use the day to do bad things like slip razor blades into apples, and poison into candy bars. Others say that Halloween is better because it promotes community togetherness: neighbors get together and meet each other over the premise of children seeking candy.

I’m in neither camp. A day is a day. It can be used for good or ill. For me, it is a time of year when the trees lose their beautiful façade and reveal a twisted nature beneath while mankind dons twisted masks to hide souls barer than the branches.

And the next day, All Saints Day, serves to remind me that there is nothing to fear.

Want to see my costume? I’ll be posting pics of my transmogrification on twitter later in the week!

Mortification

Mortification -- the feeling that comes from unknowingly wearing new clothes in public with the tags still on them.

No wombat arms!

I recently bought some new dress shirts. I'd been avoiding it for one because I don't particularly enjoy shopping and two, because I hate how dress shirts fit me. Most often they're cut for guys with bigger arms and chests than I've got. I look like a wombat in a necktie. 

My mom had been secretly scouting stores and found a brand which made a "super-slim" fit. Amazingly, I looked human in them. 

Last weekend, I debuted my new look at church. I walked down the aisle with just a touch of swagger and sat in my usual pew about three from the front. It was one of those moments, where you feel like everyone is looking at you, and at first you think, "it's 'cuz I look good." And then you think, "or is there something on my face?" And then you think, "you're just being paranoid." And then catch the whole north side of church looking at you across the aisle and you think, "there must be something on my face." And you start to feel really guilty, because new clothes are supposed to make you feel good, except you're not supposed to be thinking about your appearance in church. 

And then you reach your hand up to scratch your neck and you feel a sticker on your collar, and all your blood rushes into your cheeks because everyone behind you now knows what size you wear. Despite your mortification, you peel it off as discretely as you can and slip it into your pocket and remain in your pew as if nothing has happened. You tell yourself that no one noticed. But then again, why else was everyone looking at you?

This isn't the first time I've tagged it in public. Back in high school, where mortification in amplified by hormones and peer pressure, I wore pants with the size sticker on them to a music competition. 

Imagine me carrying around with my euphonium in new corduroys with my waist size plastered down the leg in large numbers. And no one told me. 

You'd think it's common decency to tell a fellow human being they look ridiculous. 

A few months ago, I was in line at a coffee shop and the woman ahead of me was wearing her cardigan inside-out. I really wanted to tell her, but she was on her phone. So I let her get her coffee and walk out the door wearing an inside-out sweater. Am I a horrible person for not telling her, or would it have cause her more embarrassment to point out her faux pas in the middle of a busy coffee shop? 

Do we really want strangers to mind their own business? Probably yes. But the rule might be flexible when someone's tag is showing.