Barbie Girl

Last week I successfully completed my undergraduate degree by partaking in the ritual known as graduation. I paraded behind my fellow alphabet letters in navy robes and mortarboards in order to receive the coveted diploma. Like many successful college grads, I am now living at my parents' home and I'm unemployed.Though I am not working a nine to five job, I am putting my B.A. to good use by marking cardboard boxes with thick sharpie markers and sorting the contents of my household into the appropriate cube in preparation for my parents' move across the country.

In the moving frenzie, I came across a box containing my beloved Barbie doll. After years of devote play, her hair is now frizzy and her limbs are slightly dented from my carnivorous preschool days. But despite her slightly haggled appearance, Barbie remains to be the ultimate icon of fashion and beauty. As I examined this doll in my hands, I quickly became embarrassed in the face of my former addiction. You see, I use to be a Barbie junkie. I loved playing with this plastic beauty every chance I could get. In fact, this habit lasted well through my middle school days.

While most of my tween comrades dabbled in the world of Maybeline, I was trapped in the world of Mattel. I would come home from school, grab a granola bar, and sneak downstairs to the playroom. There, I would pull Barbie and her posse from their labeled bin and engage in  hours of dramatic play. When friends would call to hang, I always found myself in a mad rush to clean up my "baby toys" and slip an NSYNC tape on the CD player before the doorbell rang. Though I tried to kick the habit several times, I was a woman possessed. Even duct taping the plastic lid couldn't keep me away from my pals. I ripped the thick binding from the bin in order to expose the melodramas between Barbie, Stacey, and Ken.

At thirteen, I deemed myself immature and abnormal for living in a world of make believe. But as I look back on the play habits of my youth, I can't help but laugh because I now understand my fascination with these toys. I did not enjoy playing with Barbie because I could dress her up in pretty dresses and do her hair, rather I played with Barbie because each play time became a new story, a new plot line, a new adventure.

As a writer, I am always searching for characters to share their stories. I wait for them to whisper their experiences in my ear. Barbie simply happened to be the  protagonist of my youth. While sitting in algebra or drawing maps in Social Studies, she would chatter about Skipper stealing her favorite sweater or her attempt to save the lost city of Atlantis. When I returned home, I replayed the stories she revealed. Though I never recorded her endeavors on paper, the innocent and intense creativity  of our play fueled my passion and pursuit of writing. But instead of reenacting the scenes I see and hear, I now record them on sacred pages.

Holding Barbie in my hands, I brushed her hair smooth and gave her dress a quick straightening before laying her gently in a box marked "donate." As I closed the lid and taped it shut, I whispered a little prayer for my once beloved toy, hoping that she will continue to share her stories and bring joy to another little girl who is eager to retell them.