I’m so glad when Halloween ends and my wife stops talking about dressing up. “We need to think of a good costume this year!” she’ll say during our morning commute, pounding the steering wheel with an invisible gavel. I reply with a slow nod while carefully avoiding eye contact. We go through this fruitless exercise every year.
She looks at costumes the way a girl looks at diamonds; I look at costumes the way a girl from Sierra Leone looks at blood diamonds. It’s not that I begrudge her a little dressing up, it’s that I’m expected to join in.