
I have a vintage, original Barbie Doll from 1959. She has managed to retain her remarkable physique while I have morphed from a chubby child to a healthy young woman back to a chubby curmudgeon. Three generations of storytelling girls have played with her: me, my daughter, and my granddaughter. The doll remains perfectly proportioned and ageless as I cope with trying to find my buried belly button.

Because I’m a chubby curmudgeon, I have no intention of seeing the movie. It’s a box office hit, but I’d rather sit on my patio with a summer cocktail than wear a garish pink outfit and share a theatre with squealing girls wearing pink uniforms. Besides, I already have my own Ken Doll.


My grandchildren no longer play with Barbie Dolls. What should I do with her precious wardrobe? Sell it? Donate it? No one would appreciate how my grandmother lovingly hand-stitched hems and sewed buttons and snaps. She spent hours with her crochet needles and antique treadle sewing machine to create lovely pieces for one reason: To please me, her granddaughter.
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