At Halloween, we dressed up for success

My new department had a reputation for being a tight-knit competitive bunch and I was still struggling to accelerate that awkward transition from being the new kid to one of the gang. Having started my job in December, I had no frame of reference for what has become the biggest office holiday of the year: Halloween.

While I've always been a fan of candy, I made what I believed to be a very adult decision back in the seventh grade regarding Halloween: Costume competitions -- formally or informally judged -- were too stressful and I was better suited to handing out candy than to dressing up.

I was never haunted by that decision . . . until I received the e-mail from the office fun committee, otherwise known as the F-Troop, that is responsible for throwing those forced fun fetes fostering friendship.

The e-mail came in September -- just moments after I'd discarded Labor Day from my page-a-day calendar -- and was one of those interactive notes designed to be oh-so-scary and entertaining all at once. The hipsters call it ``scaretertainment." The spooky black backdrop was stark against the picture of the haunted house with a graveyard where the front lawn should have been and the invitation's lettering was made to look like dripping blood.

When you clicked on different parts of the house or graveyard or flying bats, you received more information about the big Halloween office party. All the while, the sounds of an ominous, dusty organ sprang from my computer. Scary.

I clicked on the front door of the haunted house and up popped the time and location of the conference room where the party would be . I then clicked on a bat to read the disclaimer that costumes were optional yet encouraged.

The excitement was palpable in the cube farm as my colleagues clicked on creaking doors while the sounds of the organ streamed through the office. I'm quite sure there was more pertinent party information hidden behind those tombstones and spider webs, yet I wasn't able to access it. Perhaps the F-Troop double-double-toiled-and-troubled a bit too much on the invitation because all at once, everybody's computers crashed. Clearly, we had nothing else to do but discuss the Halloween party face-to-face.

Not willing to disclose my seventh grade vow, I carefully listened as the group tossed around the traditional albeit simple Minnie Mouse, witch, and baseball player costume suggestions. All the ideas were met with polite smiles and some chuckles. I felt a sense of relief that maybe dressing up wouldn't be so bad after all, since these low-key ideas would be easy to pull off and might actually be fun.

Soon, my boss Sue shifted the costume discussion into office Halloween stories of yore. There was the time when the temp dressed as Lady Godiva and ``accidentally" tripped over her flowing yet strategically placed wig, resulting in a twisted ankle and a bruised ego.

Then there was the year that the auditors were met by my boss, aka Cruella Da Ville, who stayed in character as they reconciled the quarterly statements. These stories, along with the tales of previous costume contest winners -- the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man, the Cat in the Hat, and the spoof of ``The Office" -- confirmed that Halloween was not just another day at this office. It wasn't a coincidence that my boss and the people on her team consistently won prizes each year. They were out to win.

As the IT folks were busying themselves fixing our computers, I was invited into a closed-door meeting with my team. I quickly learned that the feigned encouragement for the simpler costumes was part of their strategy to reduce the competition.

Eager to show off my creativity and ability to be one of the gang, I offered the first costume suggestion, ``What about the Three Stooges?" My idea was quickly ditched as I was informed that there aren't enough roles for the entire department and besides, the Three Stooges were ``too violent for the little goblins." (I surmised that another pertinent data point hidden behind a tombstone was that parents would be bringing their children to work that day, which meant I'd better stock up for the desk-to-desk trick-or-treaters.)

Really hoping for a part in this ensemble, I suggested we dress as the Gilligan's Island crew. I received polite thanks-but-no-thanks grins because the accounting department came in second place with Gilligan last year. Still, I was determined to not feel like a castaway and quickly shouted, ``Seinfeld?" I desperately searched the room for a sign of encouragement yet only heard a faint whisper of ``that's so 1998."

Fearing another public rejection, I kept what turned out to be the best idea to myself. It didn't stay hidden for very long once Sue read my notepad. In a matter of minutes, she was taking full credit for casting me in the role of Clay Aiken as we prepared to enter the competition as the American Idols Live Tour.

The investments in the CDs, the after-hours rehearsals, and the covert Idols meetings brought back all of my middle-school fears while creating some new ones. Would I dress at home and commute in my costume or change once I got to the office? What about Sally, who rode the T from Braintree? Would she go to work dressed like Fantasia? What if people don't know who I'm supposed to be? What if I end up with an unsavory nickname like 40-something Debbie, who is secretly known as Toni Basil because she continues to wear her high school cheerleading uniform?

By the time the big day arrived, the office was festively decorated. The first people I saw were Minnie Mouse and Mickey Mantle in a conference room with Charlie Brown. All three appeared to be engaged in a serious work discussion that had nothing to do with their costumes. As I looked around, I noticed many of my colleagues were simply dressed in black pants and orange sweaters. I quickly realized that I was the only person who spent the past month practicing a perky smile and head tilt and none of them, save my department, were worried about how today might impact their future at the company.

The party actually turned out to be fun once I realized that the only true competitors in the office were my American Idol colleagues. In the end, we did win the prize for best costume -- but only because the other s in the office weren't so competitive. And to this day, my colleagues are oblivious to the fact that they are secretly nicknamed ``The Idols." And while I will continue to work alongside the ``Idols" based on our responsibilities, it turns out that when it comes to making friends at the office, I really have more in common with Minnie, Mickey, and Charlie.