Barbie and Me, BFF

I recently learned that my former BFF is also celebrating a significant birthday this year.
Yep, Barbie turned fifty, hit the half century mark.

I haven't purchased many Barbies since before the Misses Lorri reached their pre-teen years.

The massive box of Barbie (and her clothes, shoes, accessories, vehicles and friends) enjoyed an occasional visit during the days of owning the daycare. But Barbie and I have gradually followed different trails in life.

There were some similarities in the early years. We each got married.

And lived a neat and tidy life in the suburbs with our own Prince Charming.

We raised our families.

And, in my case, several other people's families as well.

Somewhere along the line our paths went in different directions. Barbie became a teacher, an astronaut, CEO of her own company; all while maintaining her fashion icon status.

I stayed at home in my garden when I wasn't bailing out supervising the Misses Lorri through potential arrests, expulsions and general mayheimyouthful indiscretions. Once the Misses Lorri became too old for the legal system to give a rat's ass what I had to say had left the family nest, I began to think about what I might do now that I was grown up even though I didn't do much about doing it. Turns out only Barbie has an entire staff devoted to changing her wardrobe--and, thus, her life--with a few sketches on the art board. The rest of us have to actually DO something. And I found I was immensely qualified for nothing.

Eventually I wondered if this was the only job I might get.

I don't begrudge Barbie her success, her Princess crown or her to-die-for shoe wardrobe. Not even the magic that lets her change her accessories and instantly become a firefighter, a doctor or a top chef.

But that perpetually perky smile is un-natural. Freaky. And nothing's gone south on that body. Doesn't gravity exert any force in her eternally blue-skyed world? I've never seen her mainlining Midol or rushing to the bathroom after a good joke resulted in near social disaster.

We've spent the same 50 years here during which Barbie has become a Cougar while I've become another zoo creature entirely. Something from the Large African Mammals section.

What I'm looking for is a little equity in nature, the passage of time. Fifty years old and I'm supposed to believe she hasn't had a little work done? That she doesn't slink into the bathroom from a darkened bedroom and hope Ken doesn't see her before she gets the bags compressed, the furrows filled, the eyelashes faked and the hair fluffed for daytime viewing?

Happy Birthday, Barbie. I'm sure you'll understand if we don't get together for a drink and dinner. It could take you another 50 years to decide which of your 1,000,000 pairs of shoes to wear and I can't wait. Father Time has not been as generous to me as he has to you. Listen, call me if you ever have a hot flash, bloat up for half the month, realize your bras are older than your office mates or forget where you put the keys to the Malibu Beach wagon only to find them clinched in your fist. We'll talk. That's what best friends do.