Newspaper reporter transforms into Mad Men diva for Halloween

There are moments when I believe it's possible I was born in the wrong decade, and watching AMC's Mad Men is one of them.

I don't normally suffer from the grass is always greener syndrome, but when I look at the clothing from previous decades, I can't help but sigh. Born in the 1980s, a good 20 years after the setting of the television show that centers around a 60s Manhattan advertising agency, I realize I was born at a time of big hair and bright colors, and I'm a fan of neither.

In today's world of sweatpants and flip-flops, there's something romantic about a world where you get dressed for dinner. I've always been a fan of clothing that is more classic than trendy. I wish the clothes seen on the women of Mad Men were hanging in my closet.

So for Halloween this year, I decided I would be Betty Draper, the mean, but always impeccably dressed, ex-wife of main character '60s ad man Don Draper.

I turned to Lissa Yogan, an associate professor of sociology at Valparaiso University, for an explanation of why I chose Betty. In an e-mail, she told me the simplest way to explain my decision is to look at how our brains make decisions. She said we choose who to be at Halloween by using a schema, a well-organized structure of beliefs about a social entity, such as a person.

So basically, she was telling me I want to be Betty Draper because of how I think of her, which is glamorous. Yes, she is harsh and quick-tempered, but she looks so beautiful when she's yelling at her kids.

"You selected out elements that you like," said Jerry Pierce, an assistant professor of hisory at Indiana University Northwest, as I pondered my Betty decision. "Someone who dresses as a gladiator most likely doesn't want to fight a lion."

True. So, I picked his brain about what I should look for on my vintage dress search. He told me I need to look for dresses that were very prim and colorful in an "odd" way. As far as accessories, I would need appropriate shoes and purse, a cigarette, a drink or both. And pearls?

"Probably pearls," he assured me. "They were a classic sign of upperclassness."

One night after work, I made a long list of vintage stores in Chicago, and invited a fashionista friend to accompany me on my city-crossing journey. And on a September Sunday, I donned my grandmother's pearls and we began our search. We looked at high-end stores with gorgeous mint condition dresses that cost as much as my rent, and low-end stores where everything seemed to be $10 or less. We eyed vintage jewelry, alligator purses and coral Dior dresses. But it was in the fourth store that I found my dress.

On the hanger it was unimpressive. The long sleeves were ripped, the color was an unfortunate cross between lemon and mustard, and the rhinestone belt-buckle was missing a few rhinestones. But what made me pull the dress into the fitting room was its Jackie O-like aura.

My friend and I stared at my image in the mirror, and despite the fact the dress was at least three sizes too big, I had my own Tim Gunn Project Runway moment: I could make this work.

We decided I should remove the unsalvageable sleeves, and tighten the bodice of the dress. I would get a new belt buckle. And while Pierce told me to look for odd colors, I do have vain tendencies and lemon mustard really isn't my color. I would dye the dress I bought for $14.

Thus began part two of my journey. The helpful women at the fabric store decided my dress was made of some polyester blend, and I needed polyester dye. That type of dye must be heated in a stainless steel pot large enough for my dress to move freely. Dying supplies cost me $26.

I covered myself in a plastic rain poncho and my floor with garbage bags, and dyed the dress in the kitchen. Although the dye was black, the dress turned emerald green.

Because I can barely sew on a button, my next stop was at a nearby desk in the newsroom. Marge Kullerstrand, Times columnist and sewing genius, turned the too-large and limp garment into a thing of beauty. The sleeves came off, the waist was pulled in, and the dress looked completely different. She also told me it actually wasn't made of polyester. Using the salvageable fabric from the sleeves, she crafted a pillbox hat.

The first time I put on the entire costume, I was physically transformed, exactly as I hoped. But my transformation should be more than physical, according to Chuck Gallmeier, professor of sociology at IU Northwest, who left me with an important thought after sharing his own '60s experiences mirroring the show.

"All night long you'll play the role, hopefully being mean. People will be disappointed if you don't."