As soon as the fall leaves hit the ground and the air turns crisp, many of us start counting down to Halloween—the traditions, the decorations, and of course, the costumes. But as I enter adulthood (and I am using that word loosely), I’ve started to reflect on how Halloween has evolved throughout my 23 years of celebrating.
As a kid, it meant school parades, pillowcases full of candy, and the thrill of the costume contest. As a teenager, it meant parties and begging for my curfew to be pushed from 10 p.m. to midnight. In college, it was the same vibe—minus the curfew, plus the stress of having three costumes ready for “Halloweekend.” (Yes, that is a real thing.)
But now, post-college, I find myself wondering what Halloween even is anymore. I’m not going to trick-or-treat—that would be weird. And I’m not exactly gearing up for Halloweekend round two. So instead, for this week’s blog, I’m taking a trip down memory lane and revisiting three of my most iconic (and at times concerning) Halloween costumes.
Note: I will not be including my high school or college costumes. You’re welcome, Mom and Dad.
The Bathtub
While most third graders dressed as princesses, pirates, or skeletons, my mother decided I would be… a bathtub. And not just any bathtub—a handmade one.
She cut the bottom out of a Target laundry basket, hot-glued balloons to look like bubbles, and voila: a child transformed into a bathroom fixture. Weirdly enough, I thought it was the most genius invention since 2001 (the year I was born).
I strutted my bathtub costume through the school parade, convinced everyone was oohing and ahhing (hopefully my memory isn’t lying to me). When the principal announced “Most Creative Costume,” I heard, “Charlotte de Arantes Oliveira.” Victory.
To this day, I can proudly say: my mom dressed me as a bathtub, and I won.
The Headband Incident
This is a vulnerable one. Let’s set the scene: eighth grade, private Catholic school, class of 36 students—so yes, there was a hierarchy.
In 2016, the “it” costume was Thing 1, Thing 2, Thing 3, and so on. My three friends and I fell victim to the epidemic and decided we were going to be Things 1–4. We also wanted to wear leggings, which at our school was basically a sin, so we paired them with tutus to get away with it. The look: black Lululemon leggings, blue tutus, red “Thing” shirts, and blue bandanas.
Here’s where it went wrong. If you know me, you know I have a very small head. Like, kids’-hat-size small. Which meant my bandana slid down just enough to cover my eyebrows. So while my friends looked cute and coordinated, I was walking around as Thing 3: Braces, Eyes, and Bandana Eyebrows.
To this day, I don’t know how my mom didn’t tell me to push it up (probably because I would’ve rolled my eyes and yelled, “Mooom, stop!”). And I still question how my friends let me walk around thinking I looked amazing. At least it covered my forehead, which at the time was a hot topic of conversation.
The Cow
Fast forward to last year: freshly out of college, living at home, and not feeling very festive. That is, until I decided to visit my new boyfriend, Tim (hi Tim, I know you’re reading this). We’d only been dating a few months and I was so excited to meet his friends and spend more time with him. With Halloween being the next week, naturally I assumed if he had Halloween plans, he’d tell me. I had a plethora of costumes: from dance, high school, to college.
Then, at 1 p.m. on Saturday, Tim casually says, “We’re going to a Halloween bar party tonight.” I blink. A Halloween party? Tonight?
Panic mode activated. We drove to Walmart (the closest Spirit Halloween was an hour away), and as expected—nothing. No costumes, no accessories, no hope. Time was ticking, my patience was thinning, and poor Tim was throwing out ideas that only made me want to cry (Princess Peach… in a child’s size).
Now, if you are any of my friends you know that my outfit means a lot to me. I love fashion and I like to feel confident in what I wear. Not feeling good about our outfit will lead to tears… Julia if you are reading this thank you for your patience every time we go out.
Finally, we stumbled upon a cow onesie. It was 80 degrees and humid, but we had no choice. Tim paired it with a Chick-fil-A worker costume, and suddenly, we were a couple’s costume: eat mor chikin.
At first, I was mortified. But by the end of the night, it turned out to be iconic. We even entered the costume contest, and thanks to my dance skills and Tim’s announcer abilities, we hyped the crowd up.
The moral? Ladies, if your boyfriend suggests you wear a cow onesie to the bar—just do it.
Life With Lottie 
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