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"  Since the morning of November 1, 2001 I have had a hard and fast rule\u2014don&amp;#039;t dress as something so revealing for Halloween that you only feel comfortable wearing it after several shots. It remains in my arsenal of life rules even now, more than 10 years later\u2014along with don&amp;#039;t drink things that are blue, keep the receipt from RadioShack, and don&amp;#039;t date guys who wear socks and sandals. Prior to November 1, 2001 I had dressed as a sexy version of the following: pirate, cat, devil, angel, and Hillary Clinton. Yet all of those costumes made it safely onto my own floor in the wee hours of the day following Halloween, better known as the morning of shame, a moniker often shared with its slightly less shameful kissing cousin, January 1. The Britney Spears &amp;quot;Hit Me Baby One More Time&amp;quot; video was still all the rage in the fall of 2001. Only a couple of years earlier, I had attended an all girls academy that mandated the wearing of plaid kilts, which facilitated my dressing as a precocious and sexually sophisticated school girl for a Halloween mixer in the basement of the Phi Delta Theta fraternity at the University of Pennsylvania. Following the celebration of Halloween, I decamped to the off-campus apartment of a handsome swimmer still clad in said skirt (shorter now after I experienced a growth spurt following my freshman year), thigh-high stockings, six-inch platform heels, and a too-tiny white button down shirt that bared three inches of belly. There were pigtails. There was a lollipop. And so on the balmy morning of November 1, I found myself contemplating theft as I hunted for a T-shirt amidst the shockingly neat apartment of the gentleman I spent the evening with. Any T-shirt, clean or dirty would have sufficed, but I managed to shack up with the one college boy who regularly put away his laundry. It was 7 a.m. I had a mandatory 8 a.m. calculus recitation and no choice but to venture the five blocks across campus dressed as I had the night prior. I rolled my knee socks up into a ball and slipped my feet bare into the heels, wincing at the blisters they carved during a particularly spirited dance to Chumbawamba &amp;quot;Tubthumping.&amp;quot; I tried in vain to tug my button-up to cover my belly, but there simply wasn&amp;#039;t enough material. I pulled the pigtails into a bun because that made it all more respectable and ventured out onto Chestnut Street. The four-story apartment complex exited on the very edge of my college campus. Across the street the real Philadelphia began, starting with a topless GoGo bar called Wizards. I nearly ran smack into two of the young employees, maybe my age, maybe younger, leaving their very late shift.  &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;ve done Britney before,&amp;quot; the blonde one said. &amp;quot;The old farts love it.&amp;quot; She offered me a Marlboro Red. I took it. There we were on a street corner, a few ladies of the night just sharing a smoke. Without even sunglasses to create the illusion of privacy, I made the turn onto campus proper and began my journey, stubbing out the cigarette. It didn&amp;#039;t help my cause. On Walnut Street, my economics TA was jogging at the stoplight in a pair of spandex running shorts. We avoided eye contact. He had his own shame. A block later, I encountered another Britney Spears. She hadn&amp;#039;t had the foresight to stuff her socks in a trash bin and was still rocking the full look, pigtails and all. She was owning it more than I was. She was a stranger, but we nodded in solidarity, and I stood a little taller, reaching the full six feet that those wobbly platforms allowed. I passed the bagel shop. It smelled delicious. It was begging me to come get an everything breakfast sandwich. &amp;quot;No,&amp;quot; I told myself. &amp;quot;You cannot have a breakfast sandwich while you are dressed like a trollop.&amp;quot; I was about to pass it by when I spotted my second Spears in line at the bagel shop. If she could get a bagel with her black lacy bra peeking out of her crop top, I could, too. There was strength in numbers. A group of fully dressed women whispered to one another. I held one of their stares. &amp;quot;Lookin&amp;#039; good,&amp;quot; the pimply bagel guy said as he handed me the greasy bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich. &amp;quot;Thank you,&amp;quot; I said, and meant it. Second Britney Spears gave me a wink. I was no longer hunched over for the final block to my own apartment. I stood tall and proud. I was 21, I was wearing a crop top, and I looked good. My loneliness was not killing me. I was not the only woman walking through campus showing too much skin and wearing last night&amp;#039;s mascara. I felt good. &amp;quot;You look like a hooker,&amp;quot; my roommate said to me when I walked into our shared room. She was right. And that&amp;#039;s the simple reason I don&amp;#039;t do &amp;quot;sexy&amp;quot; Halloween anymore. It is just as fun to be Hillary Clinton without the fishnets (although a naughty Ann Romney would have been a hoot in 2011). My stomach is a little bit softer, and I hate wearing platform heels. I always know where I will end up the morning of November 1. I had my slutty Halloweens, and I have happily left them behind. I do however have a message for all the young women out there who want to dress as Miley Cyrus from this year&amp;#039;s MTV Video Music Awards: Wear a coat. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
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