I know I'm 42. You know I'm 42. But something changes when you put on a full body/face costume on and go trick-or treating. And then nobody knows you are 42. (Alright, almost 43).
My BFF, Julie (aka, Edna Medna Big Fat Pedna), said "Of course!" when I told her we should go trick-or-treating. One of the many reasons why I love her so. We donned Crash Test Dummy outfits, got pillow cases, and drove her Lexus to the best neighborhood in town.
The first place we stopped, the guy (who was probably 35) told us we were too old (could he see our wrinkles?) It may have been that we were just a foot taller than most of the trick-or-treaters.
We regrouped. We changed our voices to be higher pitched. We ran from house to house. We squatted down so we didn't look so tall. And nobody else even questioned us. We laughed until we cried. We had SOOOOO much fun.
We were older than the parents who were walking their kids around. And we got lots of loot. Okay. It may have been about the candy. I already ate the Almond Joys.