You know how some people party like it’s 1999? Well, on New Year’s Eve 1999, I did something even better, or stranger. While most folks worried about the Y2K apocalypse, stocking up on canned beans and bottled water, I was busy painting myself green and silver and preparing to dance with senior citizens dressed as an alien. Yep, you read that right. I got paid to be an alien party companion for the elderly. Glamorous, huh?
As if the idea alone wasn’t hilarious enough, my “costume” featured what I affectionately remember as the poor man’s tinsel Slash wig. It was like if Slash from Guns N’ Roses had a budget crisis and raided a dollar store’s holiday clearance bin. Honestly, you should’ve seen me after I removed the layers of metallic makeup; it looked like I’d had a close encounter of the sparkly kind.
But wait! It gets better. The genius boyfriend I had at the time was also hired as a dancing alien. His costume included a full, rubber, over-the-head alien mask that made him look like E.T.’s less popular cousin. I don’t have any surviving pictures of him because, well, I burned them in a dramatic post-breakup ritual about a month later when I regained my senses. Trust me, it’s a rite of passage every woman needs to experience at least once.
Why aliens, you ask? Because everyone in 1999 was convinced computers were going to implode at midnight, leaving humanity vulnerable to alien domination or something equally ridiculous. Honestly, who knew technology paranoia could translate into a side gig for a desperate single mom? Thank goodness for collective hysteria paying my rent.
If you think that’s the strangest job I’ve ever had, tune in next time. I’ll tell you about the unforgettable day I dressed as a pregnant bride, wandering around a bridal expo frantically yelling, “Harold! Have you seen my Harold? We’re supposed to get married!” Ah, the dignity.
Pics or it didn’t happen!
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