A Blessing of Unicorns

It was three months before Halloween. The costumes were still being unpacked when a loose cannon of a thought rolled through my head while cruising the aisle full of open boxes.

“Adult inflatable unicorns, what fun will somebody have wearing those?” I thought.

The epiphany came in the parking lot. “Why can’t that somebody be me?”

There were three costumes on the shelf, and back at checkout, the sale price was a welcome surprise. Didn’t everybody want to be a unicorn?

On the way home, I called that certain friend we all have who says yes to things before they hear the whole plan. “Don’t think I’m crazy, but we are going to be unicorns.”

We roped in a couple of neighbors and filmed ourselves re-enacting the archetypal KP Facebook posts. “Dog running down road,” “Has anyone seen my pig?” — that sort of thing. It wasn’t until a local businessperson landed in the hospital a few days later that we discovered our true purpose was to just show up.

From there, under the inflatable cloak of secrecy, we collected more willing participants. The original suits got their workout, and other neighbors started buying their own. We became random sightings at Gateway Park, ribbon-cutting ceremonies, and chair yoga class at The Mustard Seed Project. Unicorns were there.

A myriad of colors sprang up in the herd, which we learned is called a blessing. We have multiple versions of white, blue, pink, purple, orange — you name it. We even have one that looks like a zebra, inspired by that zoo transport mishap in the news a year ago, when four zebras escaped into North Bend (See https://www.youtube.com/shorts/35yEOVWdA9c). Scooter has his mother’s stripes and his father’s horn.

To date, 27 KP residents have suited up to spread joy.

It may be surprising to learn, but it is very difficult for unicorns to see. Once inflated, the mesh or vinyl face portal is often ill-placed, depending on one’s height, and fogs up immediately with any activity.

This is particularly troublesome when dancing or passing out candy to small children.

Our first excursions — paddleboarding and climbing all over the KP Civic Center playground — were probably a little ambitious. Now, we mainly stick to the ground, even though some of us have been tempted to roller skate.

Expressing joy with limited sight, no words, and a waddle rather than a walk requires an unusual learning curve. Once suited up, even the best laid plans and pre-rehearsed dance moves can be unraveled by the slightest breeze or a loose battery. Unicorns know that there is never actually a guarantee that we will be seen. (I have been known to dance without an audience a few times myself.)

Yes, even unicorns can be self-conscious, but while learning to navigate new physical limitations of an inflated unicorn body, inside the suit, a magical metamorphosis takes place.

Vision may be diminished while hearing improves, and identity is transformed. No longer an individual, but part of the blessing — spreading joy, together — becomes the focus. The chance that we might lift someone’s spirit when they need it most makes it worthwhile.

The KP Unicorns are all ages. We run the gamut of personalities, professions, politics, and mobility. We have busy lives and show up on the fly, or on the hoof, if and when we can. We have three simple rules.

Unicorns must maintain their secret identities.

Unicorns do not speak.

Unicorns spread joy.

It has been three years since I walked back into the store and bought those first inflatable suits. The biggest lesson I’ve learned is that being a unicorn is not about who the unicorn is; it is about what happens when you become one.

Gumdrop lives on the Key Peninsula.