Last night I had a gig at a Halloween party.
Costumes were required, so I assembled the sluttiest outfit possible with pieces from my closet. I affixed tarantula-like eyelashes to my lids, and slipped into a plunging, black, satin V-neck jumper that shockingly revealed more leg than chest. I pulled on a pair of fishnet stockings, and strapped my ankles into my favorite pair of C.F.M. shoes. (If you’re confused, look it up. I’m not helping you on this one.) I dubbed my costume, “The Chick Singer”.
Halloween is such a great excuse for a woman to dress like a slut.
The party was a snoozer, but the band was good (Hello!). I made friends with two 10-year olds who were dressed up as “Before and After”. One wore a crisp, white gown adorned with pearls and ribbons; the other wore the torn and bloody version, along with ghastly, ghostly makeup. The girls were best friends and great dancers. “After” even had a choreographed routine that involved astoundingly good break-dancing.
I sang my face off for three hours, danced with the ten-year olds (and other females dressed as sluts), collected my wages, and happily bid farewell to Simi Valley.
As I drove back home on the dark, empty 118 freeway, my ears were still ringing from the drummer’s last, lengthy solo. I shut my radio off and glanced down at my phone. The time read 1:07 a.m., on Sunday, October 30th.
It’s my wedding anniversary. No, wait. It’s my UNiversary.
I waited for a flood of emotion to hit me. I almost felt guilty for not realizing what day it was. Sure, I have been aware that the day was drawing near, but once it actually dawned, it didn’t make much of an impact.
I casually steered my vehicle and furrowed my brows. I tried to force myself to tears. Surely there’d be something in me that felt sad, or a sense of loss – or even nostalgia.
And – dare I say – it feels so good. Because it’s so right. I am not supposed to be married to that person. I am healed, and I continue to heal, and it’s all an amazing testament of God’s grace.
2 Corinthians 4:7-9 …this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed.
As I sit in my cozy Pasadena apartment on this gorgeous and joyful morning, I do recall a funny memory from that day, twelve years ago:
My husband and I had not registered for wedding gifts, so our guests gave us money. As we drove away from the church, bound for our bridal suite at the Hilton, we realized we needed to deposit the cash and checks into my bank account so we’d have an extra cushion for our two-week honeymoon in Cancun and Belize. It was early in the evening on that Saturday, and no banks were open. We managed to find a grocery store near our hotel with an ATM that would accept deposits.
There we were: a fresh, young married couple, just an hour away from consummating our marriage. We giddily traipsed through Ralphs in our wedding attire. It must have been quite the sight. I took charge of depositing the checks as my husband stood in line to buy a Coke and a Butterfinger. As I waited at the machine for the deposit envelope to be accepted, a woman stopped right next to me. Her shopping cart’s dirty wheels came dangerously close to marking over the satin trim on my bridal gown.
I felt her studying me for a moment.
“Oh, I get it!” she chirped, loudly. “You’re a bride for Halloween! That’s sooooo cuuuute! And funny!”
I stared at her, and adjusted my veil.
“No, actually, I got married today.”
“So what kind of Halloween party are you going to? Your costume is really sweet.”
I stared harder.
“No, I actually got married today.”
A look of realization, then confusion, spread across her face.
“Oh!? Congratulations!! Where…where’s your husband?” She asked, craning her neck over the bustling crowd of shoppers.
I glanced up at the line where my other half had previously stood. He was not there. My eyes darted around the store, but he was nowhere to be found.
I shrugged. “Oh, he’s around…somewhere.”
She smiled, politely. “Well, congratulations, and…Happy Halloween!” — and slowly pushed her cartful of groceries out the sliding door.
From now on, I think I’ll stick with the slut costume for Halloween.