by Cyn Bagley

Created on: October 09, 2009   Last Updated: December 07, 2011

When I was young, I never thought I would be one of those poopish adults, who would huddle in the back room with the lights and T.V. off, ignoring the knocks and rings of trick-or-treaters. If I thought about aging at all, and aging around Halloween, I thought I would be one of those cool adults, who always had a never-ending supply of chocolate bars. I thought that I would be a over-the-top Halloween decorator, like our landlady. But here I am, huddled next to my honey, trying to ignore the Halloweeners.

So what started this back slide into uncoolness? Was my mother a pooper adult? Did my father declare Halloween evil?

The answer to both questions is NO. Even though my parents are what you call excessively invested into their religion, they are not poopers. In fact, my mother still goes to the grocery store every year to buy out the candy for the little hoodlums. She is that shopper that goes from store to store, comparing types of candy. Also, she spends hours baking and decorating pumpkin cookies. Plus she even wears a Halloween costume, usually a witch. You can't call her a pooper.

My father hands out the cookies and candy, and even counts how many he gives to each creature. Even though he is an extreme introvert, he has been known to get involved with the church's Halloween parties. I have seen him dress up as a scarecrow. Since he is over six feet tall, it is a good choice. Obviously, Halloween pooper doesn't describe him.

Even my grandparents, rest their souls, would have a small Halloween party in their home for their grandchildren. So I have to say that being a pooper is not a genetic.

I am a pooper because my honey one day asked me how much it cost me to buy Halloween candy every year. As I added up the prices of the candy corn, pops, gummies, and chocolate bars, my eyes popped. It was enough money for a small vacation to Bermuda (insert place of choice.) And, candy is not the last of the expenses. How about skeleton's hanging on the my door, costumes, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera?

BING. An idea.

Why not take all that money, going into the tummies of kids who don't need the extra weight, and save that money for a vacation?

So I am now a proud Halloween pooper. I don't buy candy for myself either. Once the last of the treaters knock on the door, we walk over to the landlady's apartment and yell "Trick or Treat."

She hands over the cider and we enjoy her Halloween decorations.

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