Super Scary (and Sexist) Halloween Costumes

When I was little, I’d play dress up. I’d put on my mother’s beige heels or my sister’s prom dress and strut around my room like it was a runway.

I’d wear a pink tutu and make a crown out of yellow construction paper and draw little jewels with magenta and green crayons.

I could spend hours and hours just frolicking around my room; trying on this shirt or pretending to be that Disney princess.

Even though my dress up days have passed, there is still one occasion where I can relive one of my favorite elementary school pastimes.

Halloween – It’s the day where the ghosts, ghouls, and zombies come out to play. Where you can be whoever you want to be, without judgement. It’s a time to live in a fantasy for a day.

When I was little I’d jump for joy knowing I could wear my princess or witch costume to school, and the incoming candy overstock I’d have after trick-or-treating.

Now that I’m older, I’m just excited for the excuse to dress up for a day. I’ve noticed that it’s becoming harder and harder to find a costume I like, and for one big reason: women’s Halloween costumes are hypersexualized.

Now, this may not come as a surprise to some of you. You’ve been through the struggle of picking out a costume. Whether it be you couldn’t choose just what you wanted to be or you couldn’t find the perfect costume for who you wanted to be.

For women, finding an appropriate costume takes another ounce of effort. I’ve found that once you grow out of child sizes and into teenage or adult sizes, that the dresses don’t really grow much longer.

If you go onto any major costume store, such as Party City, you can see just how true this is. There are very few costumes for women that don’t contain one of the following: little tutus, corsets, skin-tight body suits, or above mid-thigh skirts.

Now, some women like wearing these costumes, and I see nothing wrong with that. But, the problem is for the women who don’t want to show much skin on Halloween.

Bustle, an online news blog, did an article about the difference between men’s and women’s costumes, which you can see here: .

They bring an air of comedy to just how sexualized women’s costumes can be. For example, a man’s costume for an owl is a full-body suit while a woman’s costume is a short dress with little feathers all over it.

And that’s not even the worst of them.


The problem with this inherent sexism is that it gives women boundaries for this fun holiday. If a woman isn’t particularly confident in her body, or doesn’t want to show it off, then her costumes are very, very limited.

Even teenage girl’s costumes are becoming more and more skimpy. In fact, most costumes that would fit me I can’t even wear to school, because they don’t follow school dress code.

Some would say that it would be easier just to make a costume at home, but why should I, and many other women, have to?

Instead of telling me what I should do to help my costume-less state, tell manufacturers to create more women’s costumes that are less provocative.


Lack of control, lack of consciousness. From a passing feeling of anxiety grows a larger, stronger sensation.

A pit embedded so deep in my stomach, sprouting vines that spread to the very tips of my fingers. The pit grows larger and larger, heavy as rock, hard as steel.

I pass it off as nothing. All in my head, nothing of significance. But this rock, this sensation, leaves me hyper aware.

Each movement shoots throughout my body, ricocheting off of every surface. Any tingle, shiver or prickle is felt in every nerve, magnified by my growing alertness.

And this greater attention leads to a realization, an understanding of this feeling. My depths are screaming to be let out, stopping at nothing to be heard.

I fall, deeper and deeper into my head; I am below the surface, unaware of the world around me. This pit, this feeling, is overtaking me.

The vines wrap around my brain, my eyes, anything they can grasp, bringing darkness to my world and shutting out any understanding.

My hands are immobile, unresponsive to my commands. These vines suffocate me, wrapping around my neck and my brain, squeezing tighter and tighter.

I have lost all ability to speak – to guide and to oversee. Dark clouds loom over my last drop of consciousness, obscuring my last speck of assurance.

I have lost control.

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