As we stood in the hallowed halls of academia, a colleague asked me a highbrow, intellectual question: What was your favorite thing to play when you were a kid?

Without hesitation I answered, “Barbies and School.”

No sooner were the words out of my mouth then I realized: I am still playing Barbies and school.

I’m not superficial or “girly-girl” in so many ways: I have had two manicures in my whole life; I wear little make-up; I only went through a very small period of having a very small area waxed; I use no hair product other than shampoo and conditioner. I do not have a Dream House or a pink convertible, but I do have a 12 x 12 Dream closet, and even though it’s full, just like Barbie’s, very few items in it cost more than $20, just like Barbie’s.

My two most basic passions have never left me: clothes and books. I get as thrilled entering a Staples as I do Filene’s Basement—oh—the possibilities! –a clearance winter white Michael Kors coat with shiny silver buttons? —a crisp dark red leather journal with an unbroken spine and a sewn-in red ribbon to mark my place? Oh!

I had brothers. I did not play “fashion show” with my Barbie. No, she put on one fabulous outfit for the day and then went off with G. I. Joe and solved crimes and murder mysteries, stopped bank robberies, randomly punched and kicked my brothers’ bad guy action figures. When we wanted Barbie and GI Joe to relax, she did not hang out by Barbie’s Dream Pool; no, she rode roller coasters and ferris wheels we made out of boxes, record albums, and Matchbox car racetracks.

When playing school, I was always, always, always, the teacher. I went crazy with boredom when forced to be the student, and siblings and playmates quickly learned to not fight it. My father would bring home boxes of supplies from his office: rolls of tape, boxes of pens, reams of paper, packages of index cards, stacks of legal pads. I remember vacilliating between wanting to tear into these supplies and wanting to keep them perfect and pristine—like I still am with both school supplies and clothes—wanting to wear them or use them right away and wanting to “save” them for a special occasion.

Being a professor and editor and writer who cares so much about clothes used to make me feel empty-headed, but now I’ve come to accept that I can care about clothes and still have a brain—I’ve met so many other women who can, and do. I have far too many books to count. I have one pair of shoes that are plastic, and pink, and have a kitten heel.