The Costume Party

"You wear a mask for so long, you forget who you were beneath it." — Alan Moore

Image by the author

This thing we call life is one big weird costume party.

It’s where billions of apparent people come together to build, destroy, socialize, fight, laugh, cry, love, hate, scheme, convince, accept, get shit-faced, have fun, have no fun, and so on.

We’re all at this party but no one remembers getting an invitation or choosing a costume or how we got to this party anyway. We’ve been shanghaied, squeezed into an outfit, and deposited at the party. And the most important part: our memory’s been plucked.

So now we’re standing at this party, thumbs up our asses, a little nervous, not knowing with whom to interact and what to say, perhaps even drooling on our fresh costumes a little, and more confused than a chameleon in a bag of skittles.

What are we supposed to like do here?

We’re not really in the mood to celebrate for the simple reason that there doesn’t seem to be much reason to do so — after all, we’ve got no clue what the heck’s going on here.

Perhaps a timid stroll around the place will yield some clarity.

One thing’s for certain: the place is packed. And while there are many like yourself — standing around awkwardly, not knowing what to do with their hands — there are quite a few folks who have acclimated. They congregate in groups and speak animatedly and seem to have moved beyond the initial confusion. Do they know something you don’t?

As you walk past, you hear some conversation snippets:

“…it’s all about leaving the party better than we have found it.”

“…my purpose is to find the party’s host.”

“…in my past life, I was a sea cucumber.”

“…chug! chug! chug!”

You notice that there’s a center to this party — that’s where the majority of the people are and that’s where attention is the currency. Most of the costumes here are similar because there seems to be a style of costume that assures acceptance and inclusion. And a few blessed individuals are the life of the party — they get the most attention and the most envy. Most party-goers hope to be like that too.

The further you move away from the center, the smaller the groups get, until we reach a few scattered fringe individuals who are either not interested in taking part in the activities or who no one wants to include in the activities. Why?

Because their costumes are just too weird and strange and scary and embarrassing. Better avoid those — it might rub off.

Some of them take pride in their unique costume and wear the solitude like a batch of honor. Others are sad about being excluded but they feel stuck with their costume; so there’s nothing they can do about it.

The more time you spend at this costume party, the more you settle into your own costume. You shrug your initial reservations off and start mingling.

With time, you no longer feel like you’re at a costume party — it’s just a party now. Everything appears normal and you no longer see the costumes, not even your own — you’ve gotten so used to your costume it’s now who you are.

This makes you fit right in but it also makes you emotionally involved in your costume. When someone criticizes your costume, you feel like you’re the one being criticized. And of course, you do the same — criticizing the costumes you don’t like.

Eventually, you become increasingly dissatisfied with this party.

You move around the party, talk with different people and do different things, hoping it will ward off the steadily mounting dissatisfaction directed at… what?

What exactly is it you’re dissatisfied with? The other guests? The music? The party in general?

Sure, why not?

Be dissatisfied with the whole lot. Throw a big tantrum and move to the corner where the other weirdos who can’t play nice hang out.

At least now you have some time to think. You use your brain a little and you conclude that the issue can’t be with the other guests or the party (no matter how much you’d prefer them to be the problem) because most of them don’t seem to have the issue you’re having.

As much as you’d like to avoid the conclusion, you can’t: you’re the problem.

So you take a good look at your costume and ah! what do we have here: your fairy wings droop sadly and your tutu has lost its puff and where did you leave your shoes?

No wonder you’re dissatisfied — your costume is a mess!

Time to get to work. You prop up your wings and add another pair, for good measure, and also add a little battery-powered contraption for making your wings flap imposingly; you puff up your tutu and sprinkle some glitter on it for that extra sparkle; you also find a nice new pair of shoes — surely the passed out prom queen won’t miss ‘em.

Now look at you: aren’t you a fabulous fairy? The fanciest costume at the whole wide party.

And for a while the adoring looks and sweet (sometimes jealousy-tinged) compliments make you feel really good. But that gets boring quickly and dissatisfaction creeps back in more determined than ever.

Now what?

No one around here seems to be the problem, not even you. So why’s there this jarringly disharmonious note being played constantly?

You’re considering burning the whole venue down but that would amount to nothing more than an escalated version of your previous tantrum. You try to leave but no matter which door you open and which corridor you walk down, all you find is more party.

This is starting to bother you so much that if someone were to offer a bowl of nails, you’d immediately start chewing on them, and perhaps wash them down with a little bit of whole-fat milk.

Alas, no one’s offering so you find a nice little closet to brood in instead.

You fire some questions into the closet’s void:

What is this place? Why am I here? What am I doing here? What’s the point of all this? And who am I anyway?

Wait! Who am I? That question gets your attention.

You look down at your airy fairy costume and notice a familiar sense of identification — so familiar that you’ve hardly ever noticed it at all. But you don’t stop there.

For so long — longer than you can remember — your whole identity has revolved around this costume. It’s the only thing anyone here cares about — it is a costume party after all.

But you’ve had enough of costumes; you want to know who you are for real. So you yank and claw and tear at the damn thing — has it always been this tight and constricting? And after a while of sincere labor you manage to slip out of your garb.

You want to acknowledge your real hands, but you don’t seem to have any. You want to stand on your real feet, but apparently, you’re floating. You take a look to see your real face, but what you find instead is no face. You want to realize your real self, but all you find is empty space.

So what now?

Well, might as well go back to the party. But it’s a costume party and the price of admission is a costume. You could change your costume, but there’s your perfectly fine costume ready to be worn. So you slip back into your outfit, turn the wing-flapping function on, add some fresh glitter, and rejoin the fray.

Not all your questions are answered and the party’s as strange as ever, but now you’ll never mistake the costume for the real thing ever again.

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