In theory I should love Halloween. Candy is by far my favorite of all the food groups. Children make me smile. And I’ve spent the greater part of my life wishing to be someone I’m not.

But in reality, Halloween is my most horrendous holiday.

Halloween raises all kinds of self-esteem issues for me. I’ve never been clever like my cousin Karen nor a seamstress like my mother. So with no good ideas and no means to create, when push came to shove, I simply rotated between a clown costume I wore in a school play and a white sheet with eye holes. When I had children my self-worth plummeted deeper, never allowing them creative license, but forcing them into whatever costume was left at Party City the day before Halloween.

I have deep-seeded emotional scars surrounding Halloween.

When I was in high school I would have given anything —  my sisters, my Frye boots, my soul, to be truly accepted by Nadine Maher and Betsy Ledwith.

Nadine and Betsy were cornerstones on the high school field hockey team. They were fast runners, high scorers and best friends. The pleats on their kilts hung as straight as their hair, their smoothly-shaved legs were shapely and strong. I, on the other hand, was the frizzy-haired (red, no less) goalkeeper. And while one may assume that a goalie had to have guts and grit, the truth was that I was slow, scared and prayed I’d never have to touch the ball.

Because I made Nadine and Betsy laugh, I flirted in and out of their orbit, earning the occasional sleepover invitation. But come morning, I’d be relegated back to my second-tier status, panting like a dog for another pat on the head. Imagine my glee, when in 11^th grade, Nadine and Betsy declared that they and the other it-girls-of-the-week would be Trick or Treating with me. We’d dress as hobos – torn jeans, flannel shirts, a smudge of makeup on our faces to look like dirt. Way cooler than the saddle-shoed, poodle-skirted sock-hop costumes my other friends had concocted.

I spent Halloween afternoon wondering if they would really show up and telling myself I didn’t care. When I opened the front door to a bunch of bums, I was euphoric. I hurried them in and then panicked, suddenly realizing that any member of my FAMILY could appear at any given moment.

I guided the girls to the bowl of candy on the blue tile-topped table in the front hall.

“Take as much as you want!” I said.

Full-sized Hersey bars and Tootsie Rolls were silently swooped into pillowcases as I herded the crew out the door.

We hadn’t hit the end of the flagstone path before the front door burst open and my father, clad in green plaid pants and orange striped shirt (not a costume), barreled out onto the front lawn.

“Thieves! Thieves!” he screamed, swinging the empty candy bowl through the crisp night air. “Get back here!”

I died a thousand deaths as I skulked back to the house, my new-found popularity lying at the bottom of a pillowcase.

“What kind of people are they?” he roared for the whole neighborhood to hear. “Their greedy, grubby hands took every candy bar in the bowl!”

“But, Dad,” I protested.

“Get it back!” he snapped. “Or I will.”

I narrowed my rolled eyes and ran to catch up with the cool kids. I don’t remember what I said or what excuse I used, but I’m sure I denounced my father with every cruel curse I could conjure up. I suspect I recovered half the candy bars and that when I tossed them back into the bowl that I glowered at my evil father and vowed never to speak to him again. I’m sure I slammed the door hard behind me as I stomped down the street to meet back up with the greedy, grubby thieves who never would have cleaned us out without my permission.