I drew the small brush over my nail and raised my hand closer to the light to inspect my handiwork. “Barbie pink,” I said with satisfaction. It was a gesture of homage. I was a Barbie girl at sixty-four.

When I was young, I aspired to be like Barbie while making peace with our differences. Her curly blond bangs and long ponytail pulled tight and shiny against her head couldn’t have been any more different than my straight, dark brown bob cut. Her curvy, ill-proportioned body looked nothing like my undeveloped, shapeless form. She was a California beach bum. I lived in Medford; the best I could do was an occasional ride to Revere Beach on the weekend. But despite our differences, I imagined an unrealistic future when I would drive a pink convertible and date a boy as cute as Ken.

The hype around this summer’s Barbie movie restored my connection to a favorite toy of my youth. I hadn’t thought about my Barbies for years, not since I spent my childhood summers rotating between my friends’ backyards where we “played Barbies” seated at splintery, wood, a-frame picnic tables. We toted plastic-handled pastel carrying cases plastered with Barbie’s image and filled with extensive wardrobes to each other’s homes, playrooms, and patios. Each day, we invented a different reason for Barbie, Skipper, and Ken to switch from bathing suits to formal attire–a prom, a wedding, or a tea party with Midge, Barbie’s best friend. We dressed and undressed our dolls ad nauseam, choosing from our extensive day and evening wear collections. We forced tight skirts over out-of-proportion hips, pulled stretchy tops over perky bosoms, and slid matching shoes over permanently tip-toed feet, only to undo our handiwork moments later for the next imaginary social event.

I never realized until now that Barbie provided a formative experience in my childhood. She introduced me to a love of style absorbed through exposure and osmosis. Barbie was like a gateway drug to adulthood, a glimpse at ultimate femininity. Playtime became an unintended tutorial in good grooming and fashion; Barbie taught me everything I know about accessorizing and color coordination. She became a pop culture icon; I became a lifelong Barbie girl.

Long after the days of Barbie picnic table proms and weddings, I applied Barbie style standards to my career wardrobe. I plucked blouses, skirts, and dresses from the racks at Filene’s, asking myself, “What would Barbie wear?” I trawled through shoe displays at Jordan Marsh in search of Barbie-worthy footwear. Barbie’s wardrobe of pumps and sandals inspired my favorites. I wore lofty heels and straw wedges with aplomb from young adulthood into middle age. I crammed my toes into pointy styles, repressing the pain caused by precariously high heels. Nowadays, as an aging Barbie girl, I spend my shopping trips gazing longingly at four-inch heels while I futilely search for marginally stylish but sensible shoes. I can’t lie–the loss of sassy footwear stings. Barbie is ageless. I’m not as lucky.

The aging Barbie girl in me reflects with melancholy on the superficiality of cute clothes and an unattainable figure. The escapism of Barbie’s beach-centric life and pink convertible feels like comfort food for a hungry, ancient heart. I pine for a simpler time without aches and pains when cute shoes and the possibility of a future with a pink convertible fueled my future dreams. In contrast to my Barbie days, growing old isn’t child’s play, but I gladly indulge in the guilty pleasure of entering her world and the chance to slip into my Barbie girl identity once more.