By B.J. Roche

When a four-year old friend was the lone child among the crowd visiting for Thanksgiving Dinner last November, I fretted about keeping her entertained. At the last minute, I brought down to the living room the giant tub filled with my daughter’s abandoned Barbie-nalia: several Barbies, a couple of Belles and a Mary Poppins, hundreds of thumbnail-sized Manolos, a slew of red-carpet-worthy gowns. Also:  the detritus of a dozen failed careers and life changes; power suits, cowgirl chaps, peignoirs, tiny stethoscopes, champagne glasses, wedding cake slices, pots of tulips, kitchen tables, a golden retriever who no longer barked, a fuzzy-headed, no-good Ken.

Ciamara’s mom watched in polite horror as her daughter dug into the box and began pawing away, searching for a matching hot pink slipper to go with a cute little sequined number.

The box kept her occupied all afternoon, for several hours, through pie, coffee, drinks and music making. But I hadn’t counted on what happened in the chair next to her. All afternoon, as we sat talking, one by one, the 40, 50 and 60-something ladies, almost without even thinking about it, sat down, picked up a Barbie and started to play. Ooh, love these shoes. What would look good with this outfit?

As they dressed and undressed, there was much reminiscing: about our first Barbies (these were the days of Barbienogamy: one-girl-one-Barbie), the coveting of our neighbor’s Barbie dream houses (our first experience with house porn), Barbie cars, Barbie soda fountains. The envy over our cousin's Barbie-wealth. We got over it. Most of it, anyways. We processed the shoes, the shapes.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. In college days we cursed that damn Barbie and all she represented about women and body image (she being the original plastic surgery addict). She was, we pointed out, an idea manufactured by the same guys who entertain us on  “Mad Men,” and of course we were right, but now we say, so what? Pass me that pretty dress and let's find a purse to go with it.

When my daughter first came to live with us as a foster child, I took her down to New York City at Christmas time; we had two must-see destinations: the Christmas tree at the Metropolitan Museum and the Barbie section of FAO Schwarz, with its fabulous, two-story, lava lamp column filled with thousands of tiny, floaty, tumbling Barbie shoes.

Thanksgiving afternoon, my now-grown daughter was also down there on the floor, playing with Ciamara, directing her to a better match between gown and accessories than what she had.

For all the women in the living room, the past few years had been rocky ones: career changes, illness, kids who had run aground, jobs we either wanted to leave or were about to lose.

Playing with the Barbies took us to someplace different—a time when all kinds of possibilities lay ahead. We still had options. And waistlines. And lots of cute clothes.

For Barbie the best was always yet to come. And that is why we still like her.

Barbie's 50th birthday has generated some great ink: Here's AARP Magazine's The Power of 50

And if you're really out to waste a little time, here's Mattel's official history page.

                                                      --B.J. Roche