I love Halloween. Every year, I go all out decorating the garage — lights, creepy soundtrack, and enough candy to bribe the entire neighborhood. I get so caught up making it perfect that I usually forget one thing: my own costume.
My wife, on the other hand, came prepared. A few days before Halloween, Amazon boxes started showing up. Inside? Her secret costume.
When she finally stepped into the garage, I did a double take. Tight leopard-print outfit, painted spots on her face, and four-inch heels — she was unrecognizable. Let’s just say the enhancements from her recent surgery filled that outfit perfectly.
“Are we going out?” she purred.
I blinked. “Uh… give me five minutes.”
I ran upstairs, rummaged through the costume bin, and found the easiest option: a masquerade mask. Not my best work, but at least I wasn’t standing next to her in jeans and a tee shirt.
We closed up the garage and headed out to dinner at Fleming’s. It had been a while since we’d had a proper date night. The funny thing was, every time I looked at her, I felt like I was talking to someone else.
“Babe, it feels like I’m dating another woman,” I confessed, staring at her painted face and boobs.
After enjoying their Miso-glazed Chilean sea bass, the bartender asked, “Would you like dessert?”
“Crème brûlée?” I offered.
“Tawny,” she said.
“Fifteen-year or forty-year?” the bartender asked.
“Forty,” she said, smiling at me. “Sorry, babe.”
That “sorry” added seventy-five bucks to the bill — and honestly, worth every penny, but don't tell her.
The night wasn’t over, however. “Let’s go somewhere fun,” she said. So off we went to a bar with an ’80s cover band. She danced, laughed, and turned heads while I tried not to trip over my own jaw.
Hours later, we finally got home. I was done; she wasn’t. She opened a bottle of wine, turned the music back on, and started dancing again.
At some point, I fell asleep on the couch. I vaguely remember loud music, a doorbell, and seeing a leopard grab an orange Whataburger bag from someone at the door. Then she covered me with a fur throw and everything went quiet.
The next morning told the whole story: wine glasses, a half bottle of wine, leopard ears and tail on the floor, and one very hungover wife.
The moral? Never underestimate a forty-year Tawny — or a woman in leopard print on Halloween.
