I'm in a tizzy. I'm going to a grown-up Halloween party where costumes are welcome. What to wear, what to wear? I don't have a costume. I don't even have clothes that could be put together for a makeshift costume.

This puts me in a place no woman wants to be: shouting into a closetful of clothes, "I have nothing to wear!"

That is the cue in our house for everyone to clear out. My husband makes a hasty exit, and the dogs slink away, tails tucked between their legs.

Everyone leaves, that is, except my daughter, who is oblivious to my tantrum. She flits about the bedroom singing music she wrote. Her most recent lyrics tell me her mind is already past Halloween and on to Christmas.

"Who cares about me?" goes the refrain, to which the answer is the Holy Trinity as interpreted by a 6-year-old.

"Who cares about me?" she sings earnestly, "God and Jesus and Santa Claus."

Back to the current predicament. I briefly consider not dressing up. The invitation says costumes are welcome. It does not say they are required. Ha! I'm not falling for that. When an invitation says something "is welcome," it does not mean the something in question is optional. In this case, it means, "If you don't dress up, you are a loser." I don't want that.

I head to the computer for inspiration. I'll just buy something new. Easy, right? Nope.

Apparently the modern interpretation of a woman's costume is to go practically nekkid. Cut low on top, cut high on bottom and tight in between. I scroll through my choices. Sexy pirate. Sexy Batgirl. Sexy Red Riding Hood. Sexy Alice in Wonderland. Sexy peacock.

Sexy peacock? Two words that simply should not be put together.

I take a peek at the men's costumes. There I find the tooth fairy and an inflatable Sumo wrestler for the funny guy. The food-fixated man can manifest his appetite by dressing as a hot dog or bag of M&Ms. In the animal section, guys can choose just about any critter under creation. I don't know why anyone would want to be a squirrel, but how can I judge when I may very well end up dressed as a peacock with nothing more than a few feathers covering my derriere?

Wait. Let me get this straight. I'm supposed to go out half-dressed on a potentially cold night while my date is warmly ensconced in the costume equivalent of a Snuggie?

Aside from the injustice of relative costume comfort, what about the spunky attitude a woman needs to carry off a sexy outfit? She can't connect with her inner sex goddess when her date is dressed as an obese ballerina. In a pink tutu to boot.

Anyway, I don't want to be sexy. What I really want is for my husband and me to dress as Craig and Arianna, the dorky, overly enthusiastic Spartans cheerleaders from "Saturday Night Live."

We could totally pull off the characters portrayed by Will Ferrell and Cheri Oteri. Just think, anytime party small talk became tiresome, I could put a halt to it by randomly shouting, "Who's that Spartan in my teepee? It's me! It's me?"

Yep, that would be a good costume. There's just a tiny hitch; Patrick is not on board.

I'm starting to question even going to the party. Halloween is supposed to be fun. It's a night when you eat yourself sick with candy. It's for hayrides and ghost stories. It's a time to toilet-paper your frenemy's house.

I didn't do that, of course, but it's what I've heard some people do. At least I never did it again after my frenemy's dad came at me in the dark with a shotgun. Somehow, the excuse "she started it" loses its significance when said into the muzzle of a firearm.

I give up planning a costume. Maybe I'll tousle my hair into a knotted mess, spill coffee on my clothes and smear -lipstick across my face. I will call myself Decidedly Un-Sexy Frazzled Modern Woman. Yeah, that sounds more like me.

Happy Halloween.

Contact freelance writer Melanie Coughlin at coughlin@embarqmail.com.