Dressing Down

Last week, I told my students that I would give an extra credit point to anyone who wore a costume on Halloween. One brave soul, Chelsea, dared me to do the same. Now, I've been known to back down from a dare or two, but wearing a costume? Hell, I was just waiting for a good excuse.

I decided that I would dress like a redneck, complete with stained clothes, Red Man, spit cup, the whole nine yards. It's worth pointing out that I tend to get a little uptight about my costumes. In other words, it wasn't enough that I went as a redneck; I had to be accurate. I grew out my moustache for a few days, then sculpted my facial hair so it looked like I had a fu manchu. I dug out my tight jeans, hiking boots, and paint-spattered flannel shirt. I bought a wig, a baseball cap, sunglasses, and a wife-beater. I was on my way.

Before I finalized my costume, I decided to do some last minute research, so I went to Redneck Mecca. Wandering around the Wal-Mart, I played a little game of Jane Goodall, carefully observing my inspiration. As I looked over the young gentlemen in the store, I began to wonder if there was a redneck style guide. How did they all know to bend their caps the same way and wear the same five tartan designs on their plaid shirts? Was this something that Daddy taught them, or was is somehow encoded in their DNA? Regardless, I collected the data I needed and went on my merry way.

As I was driving to the store for a few last-minute items, I saw an older man standing at an intersection, with a sign that said "Need Food." Now, it's pretty uncommon to see people begging around here; in fact, this is the first beggar I've ever seen in the area, and it was clear that he was uncomfortable. His clothes were clean and tidy, albeit typically redneck; he had the military jacket, the dark jeans, the hiking boots and the Chevy baseball cap. Thinking about it later, I realized that he had definitely taken pride in his appearance. His tastes were wildly different from my own, but it was clear that he'd put some serious thought into what he wore. Watching the rednecks wandering around the mall, I noticed the same thing--my extreme stereotype was, simply, inaccurate.

When I got home, I decided to tweak my costume. I cleaned my jeans and boots, bought a brand-new flannel shirt for the ensemble, and added my dad's old Navy jacket. Looking at myself in the mirror, I knew that I'd hit it--mildly disreputable, but clean and tidy. I realized that there were only three sour notes: my jeans flared out at the bottom; my flannel shirt had shrunk, making me look like I had Frankenstein arms; and the only big belt buckle I could find was an old Soviet mariner's insignia. Still, the look worked. In fact, I decided that the too-short sleeves enhanced the costume a little.

The next day, I discovered that it's possible for a costume to be too perfect. I found that the number of flirty glances that I got had definitely tapered off. This isn't to say that I didn't get attention. In fact, in one grocery store, the security guard was extremely solicitous, and the Burger King near school seemed eager to fill my order and get me out the door. The attitudes of my colleagues, on the other hand, didn't change at all; many of them didn't notice that I was wearing a costume. Now, I've been known to let standards slip here and there, but come on! My students figured it out immediately.

So here's what I learned:

1. A wife-beater only looks good if you weigh 150 pounds and have less than 5% body fat.

2. Some of my co-workers are morons.

3. Redneck facial hair is itchy.

4. I still have Catholic guilt, and it still completely rules my life.