My ambitious plan to stay out past midnight on Halloween was dashed almost as soon as it was hatched. I swore that I could do it more than once a calendar year–I’d have two whole months to recover for New Year’s Eve–but my brain shut down at 9 after a full day of writing and screenprinting T-shirts by hand.

Now, a shut-down brain wouldn’t be a problem in a city. I could zombie-stumble anywhere in New York. But driving 25 miles each way during deer season–no dice. So I offered a contingency plan to my friends: I would meet them at a local place before they took off for the “real” entertainment.

The rented hall was alive with music when I arrived. A five piece band played swinging dance numbers. The guests ranged in age from elementary school kids to retirees. Everyone was in costume. And they all looked like they were having the best time of their lives.

It was spooky how much fun these people looked like they were having, square dancing to a caller in pajamas, strumming a washboard, in a rented hall at 9:30 on a Saturday night. I looked around for Rod Serling–seriously, I did. And I almost wished that I could have that kind of fun, too: innocent, wide-eyed fun. The kind I stopped having at, say, 12 years old.

A piece of me sure wishes that I could go to a local event–ever–and stop thinking about how small town it is. Another part–the larger part–is grateful that I have higher standards for entertainment. I’m sure my idea of fun is somebody else’s idea of rinky-dink. I won’t pretend otherwise. But at least I’m not swinging my partner round and round with a big hayseed grin on my face.

At 9:30 I was already too tired to muster up more than a smirk.