We celebrated Halloween a day early at youth group last night, ducking through haunted hallways, parading in our costumes and carving jack-o-lanterns. There was a ballerina, a toilet, an elf, a Cat in the Hat, a 50′s couple and a blond afro wig that hopped from head to head.
I felt ridiculously nostalgic and snapped photos of all the characters in the room. I stopped at a table of my favorite girls, leaned in with raised eyebrows and a devilish grin, as if to tell a ghost story or share a juicy secret, and asked, “So, what’s your favorite Halloween candy?”
Sidra laughed. “You’re so weird.”
But I wasn’t being facetious. I’ve always been serious about my candy–seriously obsessive. When I was a little girl, I climbed the back fence to go to the liquor store behind our house. I bought handfuls of 5-cent candy: jolly ranchers, laffy taffy and tootsie rolls. When I felt rich, I bought boxes of nerds and pouches of big league chew.
At bedtime, I ate candy after brushing my teeth and hid the wrappers beneath my bed. I took packs of candy with me everywhere I went, like a grandma might. Except I didn’t want to share. I stuffed entire packs of bubbalicious in my mouth at one time and licked the complete surface area of spiral lollipops from Disneyland just so I didn’t have to. One of my piano teachers charged me a piece of candy for each mistake I made, but it didn’t teach me to practice. It taught me to hide the candy in my pockets.
There are five bags of candy in the fridge right now, and my roommate, Rima, is buying more this afternoon. I hope tons of kids come trick-or-treating tonight, so we can be one of the cool houses that dumps fists full of candy into pillowcases without flinching. Of course, I won’t be disappointed if we’re left with all that candy to ourselves.