I’ve played Barbies. I’ll admit it. Don’t you dare judge me. I’m a father of four girls. I had no choice.
When my oldest was a toddler it was just her and me during the week while my wife worked. So we played Barbies. A lot. She would often toddle out of the bedroom in the morning rubbing her eyes with Barbies already in her hands, ready to start playing.
“Take this please,” she’d say and simply hand the Barbie to me and sit with her legs cris-cross apple sauce next to me.
I didn’t even get to be Ken. I was a Barbie. Not even a good one. I was the leftover Barbie, you know, the one whose left arm kept falling off and whose spangled pants didn’t match the plaid shirt. It’s not even that we didn’t have a Ken I could use. We had a few of them of varying hair color and dress lying around; one was a prince and another was a cowboy. But the Kens just laid there looking like little Village People crime victims in odd positions on our living room floor. Forgotten.
We played Barbies. Exclusively.