Every Halloween I was invited to a party and each year my mom helped me pick out a costume.
“Which one are you getting?”
“You can’t be the devil three years in a row.” If I didn’t keep growing out of my costumes I could.
“Pick something else.” This meant she would pick something for me. “How about this?” She held up a French maid outfit.
“It’s cute. You could wear black fish net stockings and high heels.” I was sold. Red lipstick, blush, and a feather duster completed my outfit.
Next year I would revert back to being the devil.