Halloween: It’s the New Christmas

It’s a classic dilemma: you need to get yourself canned before year end in order to make sure you miss your bonus, but making an fool of yourself at the company Christmas party is too cliche for you. No sweat. Get yourself fired by being completely inappropriate at Halloween instead!

My suggestion for executing this new form of holiday-gone-wild form of self-destruction has two simple steps: 1) Women, buy a costume. (Men, don’t bother). 2) Mix with coworkers of the opposite sex. To guarantee results, even for severe introverts, add alcohol.

You might be wondering, Wow, Jase, that seems like such a simple plan. How can you be so certain it will work?

Great question! A big part of the answer is in the slutbag quotient of women’s Halloween costumes, which is explosive this year. A quick look at typical women’s costumes will show you what I mean.

But, you counter, does that mean that any provocative costume is a bad thing?

I don’t want to discuss this topic in judgmental terms like “good” or “bad,“ except to say that men and women are notoriously bad at masking lascivious intent under the best of social circumstances, and throwing a skin-tight, figure-enhancing referee costume into the equation ratchets up the odds of something totally inappropriate–even career-ending–into the stratosphere.

Some of my less refined male readers will at this point shake their heads in disbelief. Jase, they’ll say, if a woman wants to dress that way, why would you suggest that it could be a bad idea? Now here comes the full male bravado: Seriously, how can you, under any circumstances, call yourself a man and say such things? Other, wiser male readers won’t actually say this out loud, at least in mixed company, but they will think it.

Please. It’s my being a man that demands I say such things. These are well understood realities that I’m talking about, and real men don’t shrink from reality, they deal with it.

Let me tell you a quick story: last Saturday night, I was in Chicago for dinner. As I stood outside the restaurant waiting for the valet to bring my car around, two female stripper cops fought off four other women–including a Playboy bunny, two milkmaids, and Catwoman–for a taxi on the same corner. My wife was with me. As the two groups of women bared what little they had covered in attempts to outdo each other for a cab, my wife asked me, “Enjoying the view?” I answered the only thing permissible under such circumstances: “Absolutely.” Anything else would have been a lie, and everyone, including you, me, and my wife, know it.

(Yes, I am still alive to tell the tale, and yes, I love my wife very much and appreciate what I’ve got… every minute of every day.)

That’s when I heard something interesting. One of the women–I think it was one of the milkmaids–said to another, “…No, you’re thinking of Jeff. He’s the guy who sits next to me [at work], he won’t be there [tonight]. Mark was the one I was telling you about with blond hair? Who I met through Trish in accounting? He’s the one I think you’d like. I’ll introduce you when we get to [the party]…”

The conversation trailed off, but I had heard enough to realize that these women were about to meet up with coworkers while dressed like strippers, a Playboy bunny, randy milkmaids, and Catwoman. Saturday was bound to be a good time, but I was having trouble picturing the following Monday without imagining some sheepish glances and maybe a new morning route through the cube maze so as to avoid a certain other coworker. I wasn’t sure I could picture Monday morning without imagining time taken to update a resume.

Then I realized: inappropriate behavior with coworkers while at a party? High likelihood of (deep) regret? Everyone all dolled up? The Halloween party is the new Chrismas party!

Awesome. It’s like they’re rediscovering prom all over again at thirty-six!