Donut Girl does Halloween

I got off the train at Grand Central and wended my way out of the station, keeping my jacket more than slightly open, just in case anybody happened to notice my sexy fuscia apron. It was still early, and, granted, I was stuck in throngs of commuters, but I thought for sure someone would notice my gorgeous polyester uniform and get a chuckle.

But nothing. Not a peep. Maybe they thought I was just on my way to work, or recently finished with a shift.

(I, of course, knew better.)

I headed towards my friend's house for her non-costume birthday party, to which I was obviously* wearing a costume. I stopped at the bank and nobody blinked. Well, of course not, I thought, it's only an ATM. These people are busy making withdrawls. I knew, though, that the laugh of the evening was on its way.

Within mere blocks of the Dunkin Donuts, my pace quickened, my smile muscles were twitching and I was feeling the beginnings of giddiness in my tummy. How funny was this going to be? I was going to walk in there, and the retro uniform I was sporting would just jump off of me and head towards the shelves of donuts. The cashiers were going to laugh the most meta-laughs of their lives. They were going to make jokes about me "helping myself." We were going to emerge as best friends and all because of my costume, which was, in fact, an actual Dunkin Donuts uniform from the late 80s/early 90s (provided by my sister's brief stint in the donut-service industry.)

Ok, maybe my hopes were too high. But would cracking a smile have killed this guy? Possibly. I walked into the store and he didn't even bat an eyelash. And neither did the two Texan girls oohing and aahing over the calorie counts in chain restaurants. I almost shouted. I mean, HELLO, how often do you see this?

Look, if I saw someone dressed as a computer trainer** coming into my office on Halloween I would think that was the funniest thing since sliced donuts. I would take pictures of myself with that person and invite him or her over for a drink. We'd be BFF.

Not so at the chain stores, apparently.

I hung my head, brushed off my "Career Apparrel"*** and put my munchkins into the plastic-bag-that-I-usually-don't-take-because-it's-wasteful-unless-it's-a-prop. One wistful look over my shoulder later, I was headed away from the biggest Halloween let down since my sister swindled me out of everything good in my pumpkin.

Later revelers soothed my aching (and itching) ego by asking me for a series of lattes. ("Why is nobody asking me for donuts or if it's time to make them?" "Donuts? They have too many calories," said a pirate, popping a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup into his mouth...) One guy on the subway platform liked me so much he shouted with joy. (I gave him a hilarious meta-munchkin.****)

I will report, however, that despite being not even remotely sluttishly dressed, I was approached by a pimp and offered a job. (I gave him a munchkin, too.) I also won second place in a costume contest, and won myself a spooky Mr. Potato Head.

Aside from the Dumb old Dunkin Donuts Downer, it was a pretty terrific Halloween.

*obvious to me, of course.

** what exactly this would look like is a little beyond me, but let's pretend it's not.

*** the tag reads "Career Apparrel, 100% Polyester"

**** I'm not sure what this means.