One day, a giant toymaker named Mattel invaded their land. Mattel kidnapped them, cloned them, packed them in boxes, and shipped them to different parts of a strange land. Miraculously, I reunited the family by choosing them out of all the clones in the toy stores and the family was happy again.
This was the story I made up to make all sixty-seven or so of my Barbies related. The mother was a glamorous white-haired beauty and their father had the the distinction of being able to grow facial hair. They had about sixty or so daughters and I named each one. (None of them were named Barbie, so I kept careful list of their names on paper.) They obviously raised their daughters to be independent as they all had successful careers—a dentist, a teacher, a model, a diver, a student, a princess, a biker, a veterinarian, and more.
Like the mythical Barbie character, my dolls were spoiled. They didn't have a dreamhouse, but they did have order and luxury. They had an impeccably clean pink RV with a kitchen and a pink limousine with a pool. Their tiny accessories were stored in pink bubble gum containers stripped of their sticker labels. Any accessories too big for the containers were always stored near them. I was constantly brushing their hair and making sure they didn’t share brushes. Their shoes were always on their feet—never the floor.
And though they were sisters, they never shared clothes either. It was too much of a hassle to change them, and why would the teacher wear the clothes that belonged to the dentist? Barbara’s outfit was Barbara’s and Tiffany’s outfit was Tiffany’s. End of story.
One day, I was forced to watch a girl I had just met change their clothes while we were playing in my room. Her pitch was high and her tone sing-song as she stole them from my imaginary world and played with them in hers. I stared at her, my brows fighting their muscular limits, my face as pink as the bubble gum containers. When she left, I indignantly put things in order and all was right again.
Today, these Barbie dolls and two Ken dolls live in a refugee camp: a plastic green box with a top that can never close completely. Their hair is matted and most of them are only half dressed. Almost all of them are barefoot. Their limousine is gone and their RV is dirty. Worst, their possessions are hopelessly lost, scattered in their camp and some landfills.
The family's world has been destroyed a second time; but, in the recesses of my seven-year-old imagination, I know their consolation is that they are together this time. Perhaps that’s why they still smile.
How they ended up in their camp is the most common story in toy history: I gave my Barbies to my little sister, who I never imagined wouldn't share my proclivities for organization and neatness. In the years after her birth, the family was separated, leaving behind random accessories, hairbrushes, and shoes—lots and lots of shoes. Once in a while, I’ll find a tiny toy and remember exactly which Barbie it belonged to and then put it in a box with other Barbie knickknacks, unwilling to throw them away while knowing the pieces will never come together and not really caring if they ever do.
My old toys are displayed on my bookshelves, and I’ve kept my stuffed animals. But when I stare at my Barbie dolls’ unnaturally starlit eyes, I am void of nostalgia. I now have one thought about the only imaginary world I have completely grown out of: “Too bad I can’t sell those dolls on eBay.”
Ironically, besides not being able to throw the Barbie box away, Barbie still has two holds on my life.
First, I surprised myself by falling in love with the film Barbie as the Princess and the Pauper, which, to others, could be deemed one of the least adult things I've ever done (but, thankfully, I firmly believe being an adult means liking and doing what you want, so there).
Second, I've become a fan of the web series "Barbie: Life in the Dreamhouse," which is self-aware, smart and funny. It's a contrast to my sweet and cushy imaginary Barbie world, but it's so much more appealing than my faded memories. (And having watched a few Barbie movies thanks to my little sister, I can say the series is much less cheesy and awkward than other Barbie films.)
So the enchantment is this: something you thought you grew out of can surprise you.
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