My husband swore up and down that he wasn’t dressing up for Halloween this year. “We’re too old for that nonsense,” he said. “Costumes are for kids.” We’re forty-seven.
I told him that was ridiculous. Our neighborhood goes all out—fog machines, lights, themed candy tables. I refused to be the boring house that handed out candy in jeans and a cardigan. He rolled his eyes so dramatically I thought they might never come back down.
So, I took matters into my own hands. Two weeks before Halloween, I secretly ordered him a full *Rugrats* Angelica costume. The wig, the skirt, the socks—everything. For myself, I made a Nemo costume out of orange fabric, foam, and a clear poncho. When Halloween night came, I laid his outfit on the bed and said, “You’re wearing this, or I’m going alone.”
He stared at it, then at me, and then—without a word—put it on. When he looked in the mirror, he burst into laughter so hard he had to sit down. That night, we won *Best Couple Costume* at three different houses. He even kept the wig on until we went to bed.
Now he’s already planning next year’s theme. I’m thinking Shrek and Fiona. Apparently, all it took to revive his Halloween spirit was a purple shirt, pigtails, and a little gentle spousal coercion. Sometimes love looks like laughter in a ridiculous costume.