It seems like I’ve been living out Halloween every night for the past month.
I’ve been frequenting the lonely, grim ranch roads of East Austin a lot lately, wearing a tiger mask and speeding on curves with wild, reckless abandon — blasting The Smiths and hopped up on chilly, autumnal air and chai tea.
Wearing a mask or a costume, I’ve found, is one of the most empowering things you can do. Behind the dull, plastic eyes of a zombie mask or dressed up as a slutty bumblebee, we are essentially solipsizing our wildest, hidden desires. The morbidity implicit in “What would it be like to be the walking undead for one night” or the sexual prowess in “How skanky can I make this French maid outfit,” for example, are attempts to reconcile one night of sartorial freedom with our undisclosed proclivities.
As a child, my grandmother bought me a Batman mask and cape — which I wore often for about a year afterward. One particular photo my parents love to show house guests is of me holding an Easter basket stuffed with plastic eggs, and my chocolate-covered face barely hidden by the frayed, faux-leather mask.
And even now, I want to be Batman.
Be safe this weekend. Get wild and stay real.
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