of dolls and daydreams
Apr. 24th, 2004 10:03 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
warped_pearlWriter's Digest prompt for 4/12/04: "My favorite toy from childhood was..."
Our bare feet danced down the steps, from the summery heat of the living room to the coolness of the basement. This was our playground: a place where the ordinary objects around us were transformed into a habitat for our Barbies. The end-table become a two-story townhome. Band-aid canisters were traveling trunks. A scrap of fabric became a beautiful dress.
My friends didn't know how to play Barbies right. They would dress their dolls in fashions, and do their hair, and their dolls' voices would be childish. With them, there was no play. There was no magic.
Now Lori, she understood. Barbies were not about clothes or hair, though we certainly spent our fair share of time on both. Barbies were about imagination. So much of our play existed in our heads.
Down the steps we crept, into the coolness of the basement. Today Lisa and Elizabeth, the older sets of twins, were having a party, complete with imaginary boyfriends. Cyndi Lauper blared on the record player while friends danced and talked.
Suddenly, the lights flickered! There was a crash, followed by a scream! Oh, no--the ghosts were back again!
Through the imaginary secret passage we ran, fleeing the terror, but safety eluded us. We crashed out into the living room, only to find the poltergeists had already made their way there. Furniture was overturned and paintings destroyed. And we were next on the agenda.
It was a terrible, terrible night.
But we survived. Morning came, and we were bloodied with blush from the Barbie Make-up kit, but we were alive. And good thing, too, because today Terese and Theresa, the younger set of twins, had a gymnastics meet to qualify for the Olympics. Our lives were rich and full.
And that is how Barbies are played.
Our bare feet danced down the steps, from the summery heat of the living room to the coolness of the basement. This was our playground: a place where the ordinary objects around us were transformed into a habitat for our Barbies. The end-table become a two-story townhome. Band-aid canisters were traveling trunks. A scrap of fabric became a beautiful dress.
My friends didn't know how to play Barbies right. They would dress their dolls in fashions, and do their hair, and their dolls' voices would be childish. With them, there was no play. There was no magic.
Now Lori, she understood. Barbies were not about clothes or hair, though we certainly spent our fair share of time on both. Barbies were about imagination. So much of our play existed in our heads.
Down the steps we crept, into the coolness of the basement. Today Lisa and Elizabeth, the older sets of twins, were having a party, complete with imaginary boyfriends. Cyndi Lauper blared on the record player while friends danced and talked.
Suddenly, the lights flickered! There was a crash, followed by a scream! Oh, no--the ghosts were back again!
Through the imaginary secret passage we ran, fleeing the terror, but safety eluded us. We crashed out into the living room, only to find the poltergeists had already made their way there. Furniture was overturned and paintings destroyed. And we were next on the agenda.
It was a terrible, terrible night.
But we survived. Morning came, and we were bloodied with blush from the Barbie Make-up kit, but we were alive. And good thing, too, because today Terese and Theresa, the younger set of twins, had a gymnastics meet to qualify for the Olympics. Our lives were rich and full.
And that is how Barbies are played.
