March 8 is International Women’s Day – that’s probably old news, by now. How ‘bout this, though: the day afterward marks a R.E.A.L. milestone: Barbie turns 50. The “Golden Girl” will be commemorated with a shiny new anniversary edition (complete with a ready-to-wow wardrobe by a Canadian designer.) It seems that even after a half century, Babs can’t give up her conspicuous... er, consumption.
We can just imagine how Mattel will craft their designer not-so-babe. Give us a break! In fact, why not give us a turn at her so we can design a true Barbie 5-0? We’ve had to endure her cutesy stuff for her whole life (well, some have... not you or me, of course... oh hell!) It’s time for some payback.
First, we know that Barbie ain’t 50; chicks like that don’t turn 50. At best they cling to the old clichéd “Forty-nine and holding” [insert vacuous giggles here] or perhaps just let it sneak by like an haute gaze past our scrubby scalps. She wouldn’t be beyond sipping pink champagne while slipping into slinky Lame' – no microfibers, please. Have you ever noticed that those crazily-arched feet never even snag the golden threads? Actually, that’s OK, because we know that our honest Barb’s arches would have crashed into broad, squat fins, by now. She might have had an Imelda-sized choice of footwear in the past, but you can bet that she’d really be humbled to Birks or Crocs... oh hell, just slippers would be fine. And those pretty little pebble toenails? She’d need a Mount St. Helen’s spew of pumice, a hoof file, and Titanic’s last cargo hold’s load of peppermint cream to even find the nails after 5 decades of ped-abuse. If she were ever to actually zero in on those nails, she might as well paint ‘em Goth Black to cover the dents and stiletto stabs her ‘middle age’ would have endured. Ok, maybe not the one where the nail fell off and the bed is already purpled in mourning.
Of course, it’s not the feet that gets us, is it? There’s no doubt it’s that insane figure, those propped-up perkies... we have always hated her for that. We figured out her lie by the time we had to pay for our own feminine supplies (and taxed, at that!)... but we must admit that “we had friends” whose own inner airheads continued to yearn for her implausible-she way too long. Not by now, though. By the time we’ve endured biting hooks that have eroded permanent grooves between shoulder blades, or gone through reams of underwired lycra – for those who may be needing the Greek alphabet to identify their own impossible cups –we knew that there was no bloom left for any of our withering roses. “Let her have ‘em!” should have become our universal cry. It’s unfortunately obvious, though, that her influence persists to boost a whole industry of silicone... not that we really wish that bubble to burst (ow!) Thank the goddesses that such were never implanted with her pea brain (oh... can you imagine if she were only 20 years old, now?! Would she be called “Bamela”?) Even so, she hasn’t a chance of glowing from her own areola aureoles – unless she’s searching for belly button lint. (Hmmm– does BB have a bb?) Our Barbie Fifty Facsimile must be true to the ravages of time and boob-tugs , complete with droops, stretch marks, and ingrown hair, at that. Bouncy-bouncy, Barbie!
That should go well to remoulding that bone-laced waistline of hers. Did Barbie ever have kids (and who was Skipper, anyway)? Bearing bairns would have wiped that concave outta her; however, even if there were no babes for Barb, she’d be paunching out, by now. You can bet Ken noticed and they’re duking it out in court. It doesn’t matter how many gym outfits with logos and sweat bands (we will make sure she actually sweats – and has underarm stubble, too – endorse that!) and Pilates collections she owns, the truth is they’d all be stashed in that pink plastic case under the bed, souring in their own neglect.
Let Barbie discover that at 50, she doesn’t need a waist, anyway. Let’s give her a Buddha belly that jiggles each time she reaches for another hunk of chocolate – I guess she might have finally found true love of sorts in Hersey’s Kisses and Hugs (yeah, Cadbury’s better, but Americans don’t have much taste in chocolate.) And let’s give her thunder thighs to match – ones that rub together as Fatty Fifty waddles to the bakery – and if she dares to wear shorts, make sure the hems catch on her glutinous rolls and creep up her darling ample ass. We’ll make her gluteus so maximus that it could be used as sunblock for her own pink gas-hog sports car. Then, drape it in polyester from a ‘Big Girls’ store so it pells like fuzzy snowballs and charges her like a Taser at a Mountie party as she slides in and out of her velour La-Z-Boy. ( Don’t forget to pop up to wobble her underarm wings, too.) Craft her with calves that dimple and pucker like a 13-year old in a trailer park, and puffy ankles with veins throbbing like a neon Ba-ding! sign. And make sure her legs are stubbly, too.
And, that face... what kind of face is that, anyway? It needs character, signs of her many life experiences - after all, she was a beauty queen and a business woman and an astronaut... (when I knew my only Barbie, she was a spy, so the clothes were just disguises, even though Emma Peele wouldn’t have been caught dead in most of them). But this butt- bland expressionless visage she’s worn all these decades is just plain creepy. If her physique was impossible, her face was even worse for being so meaningless. How many lawyers did Mattel need to hide her cocaine addiction from us? Did some of her travels include visits to Betty Ford? Was she just as dumb as she looks – a prototype Hilton?
We want better than that for her. Our Barbie needs lines to expose the laughter that turned to weeping, the thrills that became pain, the hopes dashed under the blankets of life. She needs spots and blemishes and marks of character. (Yeah, she needs some stubble on her lip, too.) She needs little spidery veins to tell of the heights and depths and extremes of ice and fire that any sane person– and even more insane ones–lives in the course of 50 years. She needs some scars – even little ones from her impatient adolescence (so she should always have had them), or gashes of fear or fury. Or even fun. She must have some moles or suspicious discolorations (so that she’s at least going to the doctor’s where she can be properly poked, peered into, and have parts mashed between glass plates). In places her skin must pall to blend to the grey of her ragged temples. Of course, her hair must be wiry and split or permed to hazmat levels, by now, so that her frown lines and hair line merge like markings in ancient riverbed. And no more of the overwrought bone structure, with cheeks sucked in as if they’ve been vacuumed by Deep Throat. Our Barbra needs jowls that sag and drooping eyelids - and never, ever a Joan River’ cadaver-stretched makeover. Our Babs need a face for her age; for the ages.
And most of all her eyes – remember those cool blue soulless stones that were stuck in her head, almost as an after- thought? They had no thought. We must do better than that, don’t you think? You see, now that we’ve fixed her so that she could appear as a credible demi-century, she cannot have empty eyes. They should be full, and a little bit bigger, though not wide-eyed, anymore, for she would have seen enough to unshade any naiveté. The whites don’t need to be clear and unmarred, but they could glisten from knowledge, and most hopefully, care and consideration. A few clouded spots or veiny streaks would weigh well with the sights of woe or wonder she should have viewed by now. Then, let her irises twinkle like prisms of light reflected – deep or light and of all and any hue. Give her eyes that make us jump, or stop to look. Let’s make those eyes finally see how she could have led us all to the depths of our souls, or spirits, or just the unique ensemble we have needed to be....
... so that way back, fifty years ago when Barbie was born, we could have just been we. Happy Fifty, Barbie, and may you finally be, unique: like you, like me.Most of all, Happy International Women’s Day!
(Just a little 'ditty' I did for you. Hope you like it. CAJ, Feb. 26, 09)
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