Barbie was the bee-all-end all when I was growing up. I was more concerned with her wardrobe then my own. Her clothes were always easier to affix then mine. Barbie blouses had snap together buttons and her skirts secured with hook-and-eyes. It's a good thing too because in her oh so slender days her outfits were tiny and with my fumbling fingers, well my Barbie would have been playing bare-bottomed.

I thought it was interesting because although I wasn't really a huge fan of hers when I was a youngster, I was pleased to see her. As if spotting an old school friend unexpectedly while shopping in a store. I imagined just that, spotting Barbie at foodland.

“How about that,” we'd say. “You look terrific” I'd volunteer with as much truth as the plastic of her arms. Then she, flashing her best coffee stained, once Osmond like smile, would place her pointed fingers on both hips and do one of those, step back, full body stares. “My, my look at you, you were always such a bean pole. How did you ever pour into those slacks? Honey, your hair, have you gone color-blind or are you still living in the old black and white family photo album where grey is …cool?”

Gee, that didn't go very well. She probably resented that I lost her case and the dog bite her head. Clearly she was affected. When I think back I must admit I wasn't very happy when Barbie was on the scene, I suppose my bitterness rubbed off on her. Well it had to go somewhere. I thought she (and a few others) was insignificant and hollow, who knew?
Maybe Raggedy Anne would be a little kinder?
It seems to me that sometimes looking backward just does not get you anywhere close to where you really want to be.