I love costumes and the concept of Halloween, although I am not a horror and gore enthusiast. Many years ago, going out to the dive bars and smoky clubs of Chicago usually involved some sort of costuming ritual, including wacky patterned hosiery/tights, fake eyelashes, red lipstick, and vintage mini-dresses or replicas courtesy of the juniors department. I often remarked that my look in my early 20s was akin to 60s-era mod hooker.

Although it usually looks slapped-together, I think since high school, my outfits have been crafted (albeit, often unsuccessfully) with great forethought and occasional gnashing of teeth. Perhaps 10 years of school uniforms wrecked my comfort level with choosing my own clothing?

These days, when I venture out of the house in public, I sometimes feel that my conscious choice of virtually every item I wear, from a boot cut jean, a sturdy ankle boot, and a cardigan and embellished tee, paired with a wrapped neck scarf and accompanied by an oversized leather pocketbook is *costuming* myself. The *character* that I become is respectable upper-middle-class-housemom.

Before I assumed this role, I played *suburban commuter businesswoman* and donned sober grey suits, tiny gold earrings, and practical pumps, often tying my hair back into a rather conservative chignon.

I think I only break my current role when I go to Atlantic City in the summertime and become 40-something on vacation, looking to get into trouble but not TOO much trouble.

For me, every day is Halloween.