On Halloween, when all of my friends are getting wasted at parties and parades, you will find me happily ensconced on my couch having a threesome with my remote control and a bottle of wine. I can’t stand braving the crowds just to see my friends dressed up like sexy nurses, cowgirls, witches and whores. I mean, call me crazy, but if I want to dress like a slut, I just dress like a slut.
Of course, as much as I hate Halloween, I actually love costumes. I just prefer showing up in one when people least expect it. Like on Thanksgiving (Indian) or Valentine’s Day (Cupid). So this year, when I blew my family off to spend Easter snowboarding in Tahoe, I did the only thing that made sense: I procured a full head-to-toe plush bunny suit.
Since we’re sort of off topic, I guess now’s as good a time as any to tell you another thing besides Halloween I’m not a huge fan of. I’m not a huge fan of children. I mean, I guess it’s not that I don’t like kids, they just make me super uncomfortable. I don’t know how to be around them. I can only recall holding a baby once in my entire life. And he diarrhea-ed through his onesie and all over my skirt. And no one even offered to pay my dry cleaning bill. I know, right?
I don’t judge others for procreating, but just, for me, I don’t see it happening. SORRY MOM! (Just kidding, my mom doesn’t know I’m on The Internet.)
So there I am on Easter Sunday, standing at the base of the Alpine Meadows in my bunny costume, when I start hearing the voices of children. “Look! Mom! It’s the Easter Bunny!”
“That’s a big responsibility you’re taking on there,” one mother warns/chides me.
“Ha. Yeah,” I laugh as I wave hello at her four-year-old before grabbing my snowboard and booking it to the chairlift.
But turns out she’s not joking. Flying down the mountain, my bunny ears flopping behind me in the wind, I hear kids screaming at me from the chairlift.
“Easter Bunny! Look, it’s the Easter Bunny!! HI EASTER BUNNY!!!!!”
And so I wave my hand in the air and shake my pink bunny tail as I pass them. I usually use sarcasm to make people smile, but it’s kind of nice to do it without even having to open my mouth. Plus, I am an attention whore and girls in bunny suits on Easter get a lot of attention.
What I’m not prepared for is what happens next.
I decide to go to the bar for a beer break. Walking through the lobby, a lot of little kids wave hi at me, and I wave back and smile. I order my drink (which the bartender pays for: yet another reason I’m loving the bunny suit) and am chatting with my friends when a mom comes up to me.
“Hi,” she says. “My daughter wants to come over and say thank you for all of the eggs you laid at our house this morning. Is that OK?”
At first I’m really confused because this is the first time I’ve ever heard that the Easter Bunny LAYS the eggs he leaves. If we’re teaching our children that mammals lay eggs, no wonder they’re all failing their standardized tests. But instead of saying any of that, I just say, “Sure.”
Suddenly, the cutest two-year-old waddles up to me. (I actually have no idea how old this kid actually was because I often think four-year-olds are eight and newborns are three, but two seems like a good guess.) She’s all bundled up in her white ski suit and has blond hair and big blue eyes.
“Can you say hi to the Easter Bunny?” her mom asks.
“Hi, Easter Bunny,” she says quietly.
“What did you want to say to her?” her mom prompts.
“Thank you for the eggs,” she says.
“Did you want to give the Easter Bunny a hug?” her mom asks.
And I extend my wet furry Easter Bunny arms and wrap them around the little girl.
“Happy Easter,” I tell her.
When she leaves, I am suddenly bombarded with parents and kids.
“HUG THE EASTER BUNNY!” one father commands his son.
But it’s the two-year-old who haunts me for the rest of the day. Who I’m still thinking about when I get home that night and pour myself a glass of wine. I’ve always said I don’t want kids. But what if my kid were like her? What if my kid were adorable. And sweet. And gentle. And innocent. And endearing?
I refill my glass in an attempt to drink the thoughts away. But I can’t make them disappear. It’s Easter Sunday. And for the first time ever, I'm wondering how many eggs I have left in my basket.