In the next few weeks, Americans will be asked to make a hard decision, possibly one of the hardest decisions they'll have to consider all year.

What to wear for Halloween.

It can be anguishing, choosing the you that you want to be for a night. Do you want to be a you that's dashing, beautiful, funny, sexy? Do you want to be a you that you've never been before? Or do you just want to be the you that wins costume contests?

Over the years my costume choices have fallen into a few broad categories.

Whatever's Cool

When I was very young the "dress-up-and-look-cute-and-they'll-give-you-free-candy" racket was an ends unto itself. But when I got a bit older, I realized I didn't have to let my parents choose whatever costume was the closest to the cash register. I could be anybody! Superman! Spider-Man! Some kind of Army Guy! Um . . . Superman again! For one night a year, I could be cool, for a given definition of "cool." And get a bus-sized bag of candy in the bargain.

This is the most common reason for costume selection, right up there with "whatever will get me that promotion," and it's a strong one. Just don't ever look at pictures from previous years to see what you used to think was cool. The "Madonna" year still plagues me.

Whatever's Quick

Some years, usually for reasons of time/money/energy, my costume was decided on the basis of what I could become in five minutes. A mad scientist was easy: lab coat, mousse the heck out of my hair until I looked like Doc Brown in a wind tunnel, and bam! Igors would line up to fill out an application.

When I was studying fencing I became a pot-bellied Zorro, a tubby Robin Hood, and some sort of generic medieval swordsman who'd apparently gone to seed. That way I could wear my fencing sabre out in public, which was impressive and fun and very useful for stabbing menacing doorbells.

There's always stuff around the house that can make me a priest, a businessman, a pimp (like the businessman, but with more purple), Gomez Addams, or Death, which should tell you a lot about my house. One year I went out as Kevin Smith's character "Silent Bob" solely because I had a trench coat, a backward baseball cap and a similar attitude toward the Atkins Diet.

Whatever Fits the Theme

Occasionally our family and friends will band together and go out as a group, with themed costumes. The advantages are obvious: you don't have to decide on your own, you can share funds and supplies, and it's easier to terrorize the single kids. We've been gangsters (pinstripe suits bought that morning from Goodwill, fake guns, rubber fedoras), the cast of The Three Musketeers, and, one memorable year, we went Star Wars.

I was Obi-Wan. My wife became a decidedly curvier Princess Leia. Others in the group were Luke, Han, and C3P0. A dome-top kitchen garbage can turned my son Jamie into a perfect R2D2 whose flailing around (due to hastily carved eyeholes) made his impression that much more accurate. All of the last-minute work became worthwhile when R2D2, still of an age to have problems with the whole "reality-vs.-fantasy" thing, attacked a startled Darth Vader on sight. I have to admit I don't recall R2D2 ever screaming "Get him! Get him!" in the movies, but that might have been in the Special Edition.

Finally, last year, I discovered the only rational method for choosing my Halloween costume.

Whatever Turns My Wife On

This should have been a no-brainer, but she's never given me an obvious choice. If I asked what turned her on she'd say, "You, silly" or some other obvious lie. Then, last year, I went as a pudgy Captain Jack Sparrow from "Pirates of the Caribbean." Got to wear my sword again, got to say all those great lines, and when I got back home that night . . .

There are things, my children, which make even a bus-sized bag of candy pale in comparison.

She's been into "Buffy" this year so you can expect to see a middle-aged, pot-bellied Spike lurching around the neighborhood, adding even more terror to the vampire legend. And that's fine. You're not the one I'm dressing for.

Trick or treat, folks.