I know, it’s hard to tell from that photo, so I’ll lay it all out for you: I was a battered Statue of Liberty. On my back was a sign that said, “Kick me, I’m Ashcroft’s bitch.” I must have been feeling particularly passive-aggressive activisty that day. Later I found out that the hostess had worked for Ashcroft, but she never brought that up as I paraded around her house, insulting her former boss. Her mama raised her better than that.
But I digress.
The costume was a last-minute thing, pulled together in the space of a few hours when I committed to the idea of looking silly and socializing with other silly-looking people. It wasn’t complicated, but I was proud of my bent cardboard crown, my thrift-store-sheet toga that I’d stomped on in the backyard, the black eye a makeup artist friend had given me.
So there I was, smeared in mud and fake blood (I think I burnt parts of the crown, too), my makeup intentionally smeared and runny, and in walks the dreamiest-looking guy I’d ever seen in person. Yes, it’s dramatic, but it’s true: I saw him from across the room, and I just kind of went “ooh” inside. After a while, he came up to me and we chatted about his grad school days at the university half my family had attended, movies old and new, and astrology (he guessed my sign correctly).
The next day at work, a longtime friend of the hostess laughed when I said I wondered when my new boyfriend was going to call.
Two hours later, she got an e-mail from the hostess asking if I would mind passing my phone number along so she could give it to the man I’d talked to all night. He wanted to ask me out, but wanted to be sure I was interested.
We talked later that day, and the conversation was a bit over-long for work. I didn’t care.
Two weeks later, we had our first date.
Four years and 11 months after we first met, we were married. The Halloween party hostess lit the candles for us.
And when I saw my almost-husband on that day, I went "ooh" inside.
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