Somewhere around 1973, there was an iconic Halloween party at the home of my very dear friend and her first husband. The first husband was a party animal–I can think of no better way to say it. He loved parties and he loved animalistic behavior and he loved the combination of the two. My girlfriend survived it for many years—I can think of no better way to say it. The Halloween party was going to be huge, hyped and planned for weeks, an impressive guest list, liquor, food, dancing, and…costumes. Who doesn’t love a costume party? Playing the part, teasing, fantasizing. I know, I know, the stress of coming up with a killer costume. But if you get lucky, if you get inspired, if you come up with a concept and can successfully execute on that moment of brillance, bam! Happy Halloween.
Before I continue, please keep in mind that this party was forty-two years ago and there are many missing pieces to what went on that night. Case in point—despite all that chatter on costumes, I can only remember two: my perfect, pregnant girl scout costume, complete with an actual uniform and a sash full of badges, high heels and a push-up bra; and the costume of a young man dressed in full-out Superman, cape and mask and big S and pumped up chest. The hussy and the hero—it was perfect. But the piece of that evening that I will always remember, always, was going to bed with Superman—and that I became pregnant that evening. A pregnant, pregnant girl scout. I aborted soon after.
At the risk of sounding hard and callous and ignorant, there was no anguishing over anything. I wanted nothing to do with this strange, one-nighter person (I have no idea what his name was), and I definitely didn’t want a child. I’m not sad, nor do I feel guilty or remorseful. It just was. Reckless youth, fearlessly acting on urges. It was the mood and the behavior of the time, the consensus of friends, the experience as it happened to a me I barely remember. I know there was a full-disclosure conversation with Superman and perhaps another date or two, but I can’t tell you anything more. I am only just now wondering if that child would have had special powers. The only thing I remember about the abortion itself was the doctor making some kind of snide remark about being cavalier (not his word) while I was waiting on a gurney in an ugly, green, hospital hallway. I suspect I was cavalier—and scared. I was definitely one crazy, flippin’, party animal.
photo credit: chisholm-poster.com