When I was a little kid, I tried to be a genie (you know, like I Dream of Jeannie) for Halloween. It was probably the pinkest, most midriff baring outfit I've ever worn in my life. But I was just six or maybe seven -- and my abs looked fantastic then.
The pants were flowy and sheer. I was string-bean thin, all legs. My costume was borrowed from a family friend, because Mom would never had indulged in such a get-up.
So, I was simply thrilled to go out trick-or-treating, at least until I kept getting mistaken for something other than what I thought I dressed up as.
Remember when you'd ring the bell and wait with glee with your pillow case or plastic jack-o-lantern like you were some deranged druggie looking for a fix? And then the adult who opened the door would inhale with excitement and say something like, "Ohhh, what do we have here? A princess, an astronaut, and Superman!"
Well, when the adults looked at me, they'd say, "And who do we have here? ... a belly dancer?"
A belly dancer!
After explaining that I was a genie for what felt like the hundredth time, I started to get angry. I might have snorted, but I probably rolled my eyes. Who the heck dresses up as a belly dancer at six years old? Why didn't they ask if I was a "working girl" or "circus performer"?
Gee-wiz. Did I dance for your amusement? Or ask for coin? Just give me the candy, toots.