At the age of three, there was nothing I wanted more than a Sleeping Beauty Barbie. I had braved Mall Santa’s lap, stoically avoided crying hysterically, and breezily requested one Sleeping Beauty Barbie, please. I have a very vague recollection of this experience– we were in California with my grandparents, and I was wearing a plaid dress with a Peter Pan collar.
Let me tell you about my obsession with Barbies. First off, I liked dressing them up. I could spend hours putting on and taking off my mom’s 60’s era Barbie clothes. The outfits were so much funkier and all around better than the stuff they produce now! Then, I liked to set them up with Kens, and create elaborate love triangles. (Side note: It is very difficult to make dolls kiss. They end up looking like they’re bashing their heads together. It’s also particularly difficult to hide from your parents that you are a total weirdo who likes to have her dolls make out.)
Anyway, the amount that I wanted a Sleeping Beauty Barbie was on par with the amount that 90’s mothers sought out the ‘Tickle-Me-Elmo.’ I wanted her as badly as Ralphie wanted a Red Rider and Kevin McAllister wanted his family to disappear. As luck would have it, Mall Santa came through! Woohoo! Unfortunately, my Sleeping Beauty Barbie was, OF COURSE, destroyed by my younger brother a short three years later. (Along with my Felicity American Girl Doll.)
^ See, Ryan. I told you I talk about you on here.