Barbie is my Girl

I’m a Barbie girl, living in a Barbie world.

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Barbie got a bad rap 

I used to spend hours playing with Barbie. HOURS. I might even go so far as to say days when you consider I would go to bed with my “town” intact ready to pick right back up the next morning. I had Barbie* and Ken* and Skipper* and Barbie’s friends*. Heck, I even had Barbie’s Afghan Hound. And trust me when I say the first time I saw one of those in real life (30 odd years later walking down a Manhattan sidewalk) it was like I was 7 again. Tossed right back into the middle of my make-believe wonderland. 

And it was a magical place. Barbie was happy. She had great friends, a cute boyfriend, she took trips on the Barbie plane or in the Barbie camper.* Sometimes she was a passenger,* sometimes a flight attendant, and sometimes the pilot.* She had a fun car* and drove around with her friends laughing. She dreamed big and had plans for the future. Maybe she had hard times too, I don’t remember. I also don’t remember EVER holding Barbie up and thinking to myself, “This is what I should look like.” And for the record, I am not blonde or 6 foot 10 or whatever the naysayers have calculated her out to be in real life. Playing with Barbie had no detrimental impact on my self-image as a woman as some would like to argue. Instead, it stoked the fires of my imagination and creativity. I would still play with Barbies all day long if life allowed it. It’s fun and who couldn’t use a little more fun in their life? So can we leave the building of self-worth in our children to the rightful owners (parents I am talking to you) and stop pointing fingers at a plastic, inanimate object with flowing blonde locks, ‘cause that’s my girl, and I am fiercely loyal to my girls. 

Not to worry Barbie, I got your back.