My partner and I planned to watch Oppenheimer the other night, but showed up late to the theater and opted for Barbie instead.
I never was a huge Barbie fan. Hot pink gives me a headache, and I remember being annoyed by my Dreamhouse’s painted-on furniture, and feeling insecure because my four-year-old waist wasn’t smaller than my head, like hers.
Neither of us really understood the Barbie appeal, but the good reviews convinced us to give it a chance.
From the moment at the beginning when Barbie steps out of her high-heeled sandals and her feet remain in tiptoe shape, we knew we were going to enjoy it in spite of ourselves.