When I got to my late thirties, I decided to start dressing for myself, which is how I got the Barbie box.
Let me explain.
When I was a young whippersnapper, I found myself attracted to the goth aesthetic. I myself was strange and unusual, and I felt that monochrome black, fishnet, and skulls properly represented the perpetual dark night of my soul.
I was raised in a far-right religious family, which probably contributed to said dark night. But that also meant I could not properly express this darkness, because goth meant subculture, and subculture meant evil.
For many years I dressed the way I was, generally, expected to dress. Until, as I say, my late thirties, when I had the sudden revelation that I had my own money and could spend it how I liked. Suddenly my wardrobe exploded with skulls and lace and snarky pop culture. I cut up t-shirts the way we did when I was in high school. I invested in Doc Martens. I do this despite being a serious adult with a husband and children. I’ve never gotten so many compliments in my life.
Once I got serenaded in a Trader Joe’s because my dress reminded the cashier of the Grateful Dead. I have at least two friends as a result of my jewelry choices. I’ve inspired multiple glasses purchases with my rhinestone-studded specs. But my favorite unexpected consequence of my sartorial revolution has to be the Barbie box.
I was picking up my second grader from school when a woman started running toward me, waving her arms. I was wearing a Victorian-style petticoated floor-length skirt, elbow gloves, a copious number of surgical steel chains, and a t-shirt that said “BARBIE: PROPERTY OF NO ONE.” I did not think this was relevant at the time.
The woman, who looked about my parents’ age, proceeded to tell me she loved my outfit and ask if I liked Barbie. I said sure, I’m wearing the shirt, I guess.
“Would you like a Barbie box?”
She went on to tell me that her daughter is an event planner in Los Angeles. She helped to plan one of the official Barbie movie premiere parties. She got to bring the Barbie box home. You know, the life-sized one that Margot Robbie almost gets trapped in? Well, a replica of it anyway.
“She had to move and she left it at my house. It’s in my garage. Do you want it?”
Now, I have a general principle I live by: if something absolutely insane happens to me, I go along with it as far as is reasonably possible.
So I said yes, of course I want it, but I do have this small child I need to take care of first. How do I get my hands on it?
She texted her husband to start deconstructing it and asked for my address.
Again, a decision point: do I tell a complete stranger who ran up to me on the street my address just to get my hands on a Barbie box I can have tea parties in?
Obviously.
So now there is a life-size Barbie box in my garage, all because when I got to my late thirties, I decided to start dressing for myself.
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