I'm a Barbie Woman

In chapter 6 of At Home in the World, writer Joyce Maynard says, "I am less mature than most eighteen-year-olds. It is just a few years since I put away my Barbies."

Ladies and gentlemen, I have never put away my Barbies.

In my experience, Barbie is an unfairly-maligned toy. I played with the 11 1/2" buxom blond bombshell throughout my childhood and adored her all the way through my teen years and into my twenties, and my enjoyment of Barbie shows no signs of slowing down anytime soon. I'm also happy with both my ethnic Mediterranean looks and my J.D., and am even making peace with my petite bosoms and, shall we say, "curvy" hips.

Now, I admit, when I was a little girl I sometimes longed to trade in my coarse dark curls for silky blond strands. Barbies of the 80's, unlike their predecessors, were almost universally blond. Like Farrah Fawcett. And Cheryl Tiegs. And Christie Brinkley. And Cybill Shepherd. And Loni Anderson. And Bo Derek. And the girls on The Brady Bunch. And that chick from Teen Wolf (see how I carefully tie my posts together by running continuous threads through them?). With a few exceptions, like Brooke Shields (who had her own doll!), brunettes were relegated to the supporting roles. We were Janet Woods to others' Chrissy Snows. Barbie wasn't nearly as much about setting the agenda as she was about reflecting it.

Barbie taught us that there will always be that busty blond chick, that skinny girl with no hips and great skin and perfect teeth, who gets all the attention. She forced us to make peace with this woman and to learn to coexist with her while still feeling good about ourselves. And occasionally manipulating her. ;)

My Barbies all had elaborate identities. They were Scandinavian and Californian and British and Russian. I named them Kiki and Elizabeth and Nicole and Marie and Jessamyn. (That's why it was important to have so many of them!) There was the allure of having this "grownup" doll to play with, instead of a baby doll. Trixie and Anastasia and Mallory would have incredible adventures. They were judges and dress designers and Olympic athletes and equestriennes. They would fly an airplane, or bravely battle leukemia, like the teenage daughter of our mother's friend that we heard discussed in hushed tones. They would help us make sense of the world. They were id and ego and superego. Sometimes, they were good women--pioneers, children's librarians. Sometimes, they were bad, slutty women, sharing a twin bed with Ken, who had snuck in through the window of the Dream House, when my own love life consisted of reading "fan fare" like River Phoenix: Hero and Heartthrob.*

All the men were named Ken. Just Ken. I had about seventeen Barbies, all with first and last names and personalities, and about two Kens, which, I have learned, is a pretty typical ratio. One Ken wore a white tuxedo; his job was to squire Barbie to formal events. The other Ken alternated between a bathing suit and a casual outfit consisting of pants and a coordinating button-down shirt. His job was to do whatever the tuxedo-clad Ken was dressed too formally to do. I would brush Barbie's hair, dress her, pick out shoes and put them on her, pose her on her own chaise lounge, her drink on a side table next to her. Ken would just stand there.

Now, we have Asian and Hispanic and African-American and redheaded and dark-haired Barbies. We have Salma Hayek and Pamela Anderson and Julianne Moore and J. Lo. Barbie evolves with the times. My mother and I sometimes go to Barbie shows and marvel at the variety, the fun, the detail, and the kitsch. We love it.

What do you think of Barbie?

*Yes, this was an actual book.