On Saturday morning I joined twenty-five other local bloggers for breakfast at an undisclosed location. I enjoyed catching up with those I hadn’t seen for awhile, and adding a face and a little more dimension to those I’ve only known online. I got lots of extra bacon too, thanks to the vegetarian bloggers.Afterwards, GC and I went to Barbie’s birthday party at Billings Bridge Mall. Barbie’s had a long and illustrious life and is still as desirable on her 50th birthday as she was on her 20th.
I was never much into Barbie, but my big sister Debbie liked her. What I liked best was the carrying case that doubled as her closet. It had doors and hangers and stuff.
By the time my little sister, MudMama, came along, there were many more variations of Barbie. Mudmama had a Growing-Up Skipper doll: If you rotated her arm, she’d go through puberty right before your eyes. Rotate it the other way, and she’d regress back into childhood. (It was too much for my brother: he rotated that arm until the entire mechanism broke, and I can’t remember now whether Skipper got stuck for all eternity in childhood or in adolescence.)Barbie’s 50th birthday party was, as you’d expect, a very pink affair. There were Barbie displays and Barbie colouring books and you could line up to get your picture taken with the five real-life Barbie models.
GC and I were the oldest people there and GC was the only boy. I took a picture of him and Barbie, and even though he’s an awfully good sport, I don’t think he’d want me to post it.
I also took pictures of various little princess girls posing with the Barbie models. Most of them were glowing with the awesomeness of the experience, but my favourite was this little girl who was completely unimpressed with Barbie and who scowled when told to smile. She was hilarious. If I ever have a grand-daughter, I want one just like her.
One of the Barbies did try to give us a small child, thinking she was ours because she said she was, but we declined. (Eventually someone stepped forward and claimed her, much to Barbie’s relief.)
We saw a family with several children gathered around a table colouring pictures of Barbie. One of the children was kneeling on her chair so she could reach her colouring book. She had the body of a one-year-old but with an older face, and she was colouring neatly inside the lines like a seven-year-old. Her mannerisms were not child-like, and she was looking around the room with wise old eyes. I have never seen anyone whose age was so utterly unguessable. She could have been a year old, or she could have been five or fifteen or even twenty-five. She fascinated me.
I think I’d rather be a 50-year-old trapped in a 20-year-old’s body, like Barbie, than be an adult trapped in a toddler’s body. But then again, who wouldn’t?