The tradition of slutty Halloween is decades old; fat girls joined the mainstream beauty construct like nine months ago or, according to some scholars, when Lizzo’s first EP dropped. In this performance of beauty, sexy/slutty is femininity 101 and spooky-hot is graduate level. I need time to catch up.

As a big girl, I’ve struggled with hot-girl Halloween. It might be fun for a skinny girl to dress as Harley Quinn, but a plus-size option may produce a result closer to Insane Clown Posse. And my fat ass is not trying to draw comparisons to Margot Robbie.

So for the past decade or so, when I’m encouraged to dress up for Halloween, I typically acknowledge the costume with a social bit.

“Hello,” I say. “It’s Halloween and I’m dressed as Wednesday Addams/goth Adele. No pressure: I’m fat. I recognize that this is tricky for you.”

As a youth, my body wasn’t central to my costume. Any layering garb to fight off the insidiously cold and wet nights of the Pacific Northwest would do. It was often a sick, miserable experience that I only muscled through because of my commitment to the candy game. For several years, I wore a shark costume my mom made, which was, in essence, a big sock. In fifth grade, my scary-witch costume was so popular I became low-key goth for the rest of my life. The most controversial thing about the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle costume I wore at eight years old was that the eye mask was red, not orange. I’m obviously a Michelangelo, and giving me the most emo character over the fun-loving skateboard hero I am is such Mom shade.

Right around the time door-to-door candy-begging became unseemly, I was learning that the lumpy cat costume, or the Power Rangers mask that hid my newly rouged cheeks and lips, was not it. Also around that time I began packing on weight, moving from a chubby adolescence to a fleshy, curvy adulthood. At 17 years old and 250 pounds, I sat out for a few Halloweens, and fell behind.

In my early twenties, fresh off a Weight Watchers stint and feeling like a skinny bitch, I took my first stab at slutty Halloween. I was barely sized out of Lane Bryant and enjoying the novelty of wearing the largest size at the Gap. The costume was actual lingerie from Frederick’s of Hollywood, with accoutrements that nodded at French Maid. It barely fit, and even in the safe window of Halloween the skimpiness shocked me. I layered on thick black tights, gloves, a slip, chunky boots and, perplexingly, a blazer. (To be fair, the blazer protected me against the elements. Next time you see a scantily clad human in public, consider their bravery, their fortitude. Rape culture notwitstanding, they are exposed to the actual elements. Fuck The Revenant, fuck Bear Grylls; anyone wearing heels and booty shorts on an October night in Michigan is a warrior.)

My confidence in doing beauty has been bolstered over the years by the changing culture, by the aforementioned Lizzo and by the moves of about a thousand fat babes (and drag queens) on Instagram. Now I’m proudly fat, diet-culture in my rearview. So if you catch me busting out of a catsuit this Halloween, please let me live—they literally just started making Heaux clothes in my size. I cannot overstate what plus-size options in fishnet and mesh and pleather have meant for me. Because why should I be denied the pleasure of suiting up in someone else’s uniform and asking, Could I be this person?

This year, I’m playing a damn flute and twerking in a bodysuit and if anyone calls me Miss Piggy I’m rolling with it.