A Battle for the Hallows

Like any good superhero, Status Quoman patrols the streets of Gothapolis on a regular basis, keeping crimes against the female body in check as best as her superabilities allow. Her beat requires more subtlety, more skill than that of Batman or Superman -- no signal alights the sky, no super hearing alerts Status Quoman to a crime being commited three miles away. No, our heroine must seek out evil in all its haunts and homes in this crime-ridden town.

Status Quoman likes to think her job requires more subtlety, but it really just requires being hit over the head with obvious things.

For instance, one night, about a month ago, Status Quoman walked her beat, this time venturing into a neighborhood unfamiliar to her. So far, the night had been uneventful. She found a lovely South Asian grocery store, leaving with a delightfully colorful lentil mix and some excitingly-named spices. The October night air held that slight nip that hints that fall is on its way. Status Quoman felt strong in the prospect of change that autumn always brings. For a superhero whose task it is to transform the status quo, change is one of her most powerful allies.

Her first inkling that Concavia was on the prowl came as Status Quoman approached a chain store infamous for its costume selection during this very season. At first, our heroine admired the selection flaunted by faceless window mannequins: a pirate, an ogre, a Ghostbuster -- and then, as she gazed, Status Quoman felt eyes on her. There, standing next to the Ghostbuster mannequin, was Concavia, smiling evilly. She, too, sported a Ghostbuster uniform. However, hers was the "women's" costume: the only attributes held over from the costume on the mannequin to her right was its yellow color and ghostbuster logo. The pant legs had been reduced to upper-thigh length shorts; the long sleeves to caps, and the collar to a low-cut, cleavage bearing, zip-down-to-the-waist flesh fest.

"How do you like my sexy-Ghostbuster costume, Status Quoman?" cackled Concavia. "I'm going to turn so many heads this Halloween, your sense of self-worth won't stand a chance. What are you going to go as -- oh wait, what was I thinking? You don't get to dress up."

"What do you mean, I don't get to dress up?" Status Quoman growled, her such-a-pretty-face flushing momentarily.

Concavia glanced up and down at Status Quoman once, let out a high-pitched squeal, and bolted into the store. Status Quoman's super big bones swelled into action, her super identity quickly flung into full battle mode. She burst into the store to pursue her archnemesis.

At first, our heroine could not determine where Concavia hid. Status Quoman started by looking for her in the basement. She was informed that this was the "men's section." Concavia was nowhere to be found amongst the racks and racks of colorful, interesting costumes. Status Quoman located the Ghostbuster outfit that she'd seen in the window. It was available in regular, tall, and extra-large sizes. A sales associate helpfully modeled the costume against his own body for our heroine, showing how much extra room it had for men of different sizes and heights. Status Quoman thanked him, but knew she must be on her way to finding and defeating Concavia.

She flew up the stairs and immediately knew she was getting warm. This section, the "women's section," was far different from downstairs. For starters, Status Quoman could tell, using her density sensors, that the total amount of fabric on this floor was far less than the floor below it. As she quietly crept from aisle to aisle, she discovered a horrifying sense of deja-vu. For every costume she'd seen in the men's section, a "women's version" of the costume existed on this floor. The women's versions were uniform in their short lengths and plunging necklines. They often included thigh high socks to accentuate long legs. Even an Elizabethan gown, traditionally low-cut and ornate, was shortened to show off stockinged thighs.

Then Status Quoman found the women's version of her Ghostbusters uniform. To her horror, she discovered that not only was it a napkin version of the men's costume, but it only existed in two sizes: small and medium. Status Quoman's face flashed purple. Now she knew why Concavia said that our heroine would not be dressing up for the holiday.

And that was when Concavia burst forward from behind the rack as the sales associate directing our heroine looked on with amusement.

Status Quoman chased Concavia out of the store. She chased her down the street and across town. She chased her across October and into Halloween. It was then that Status Quoman realized why Concavia was leading her on this chase. On that anticipated night of the carnivalesque, whose very essence requires and celebrates abandonment of self, Concavia replicated herself. Her mirrors were everywhere, in sexy devils, sexy angels, sexy butterflies, sexy cats, sexy cartoon characters, sexy nurses, sexy women-in-bikinis -- the carnivalesque had been reduced to abandonment of self and simultaneous adoption of a socially-mandated order of flesh-baring sex. Concavia was nowhere to be found, because she was everywhere.

Now Status Quoman is not against women showing their bodies. As a feminist superheroine, she fiercely defends a woman's right to wear what she chooses without fear of physical or verbal violence. However, this night of Halloween, Status Quoman saw aggression. She saw it in the guise of women forced into tiny squares of fabric because it was what was available to them, and expected of them. She saw women cloned into marches of identical costumes, lines of lingerie, the sense of creativity and surprise inherent in this holiday reduced to a sad, tired mass production line.

And what about the men, whose costumes afforded interesting levels of creativity (not to mention warmth)? Those men for whom, ostensibly, said women were putting on their mutated form of carnivalesque? They were now jammed into an uncomfortable position.

Status Quoman saw single girls who looked longingly after attached men who did not pay attention to their short skirts and tight bodices. She saw a troupe of sexy devils with cameras descend upon one hapless man waiting for his slice of pizza. And she saw another, unrelated sexy devil, who turned the call for attention on its head: when a man turned to look at her as she walked past, she responded with: "You. You are a pervert. Stop looking at me." Then, swinging her tightly-swathed hips, she strutted past.

Where does one draw the line? When a woman wears a "slutty" costume, whether or not it is something she does out of personal desire or out of social obligation, is that not done, in some part, in order to attract the attention of others? While violence of any kind is unwarranted and unacceptable, are men no longer allowed to look? Or was this yet another attempt to draw attention, or to fill a deficit of expected attention -- no man had thrown himself at her sexy-evil feet yet that night, so did that mean she was not sexy enough, and therefore had not fulfilled the promise of that one evening? No, look, a man, someone, a pervert, was looking at her. And the slutty-Halloween prophecy had been fulfilled.

Status Quoman never tracked down Concavia that night. It was a major victory for the enemy. And Status Quoman knows that, in spite of her own civil disobedience by dressing creatively no matter how much extra fabric she binds to her body, the battle will only get worse before it gets better.