Waiting for Barbie
I recall one perfect Indiana summer.
Life was simple and processed food yummy back then. It was the era of CoolAid, M&M's of all colors, Oscar Mayer hot dogs, and windmill cookies with almonds on the roof (none of which I was allowed to eat). Mothers who wore housedresses and aprons like June Cleaver yelled out our names when it was time for lunch and we scattered like a bunch of marbles.
We took a summer of innocence for granted, not realizing that our self-delight and innate confidence would soon meet the inevitable expiration date.
Life's cruel boot heel was poised to snuff out our buoyant reserves of little-princess dignity when school resumed in the fall. Ignorance was such bliss.
Seems we were always beneath one tree or another savoring those days.
If the bookmobile was in the Pine's Bible Church parking lot, we'd solemnly climb the folding stairs into its hushed, cool cavern lined with treasured books and later read in Sherry's yard.
On other days, we'd gather at Grandma Drake's with our Barbie doll brigade.
We lived on Pine Street. Pam, Sherry, Leann, and I. We were obsessed with the ongoing doll drama, flopped down on clover studded grass in our cotton shorts, midriff tops, and chunky sandals; fanning out from the plastic compound of a Barbie Dollhouse complete with swimming pool and corvette. Grass tickled our stomachs and knees, the sky blue as a robin's egg. White dandelion puffs floated lazily on the lilac-perfumed air sometimes alighting on our too-short pixie haircuts.
I adored the house with all its furniture and household items. It closed up like a big suitcase with a metal clasp that snapped. I couldn't resist peeking in a window while it was shut tight just to see what Barbie was up to.
I think I was 6 or 7 that year.
The other girls were younger. And hey...ok, I admit I was a teensy bit old to still be so gleefully into the tiny plastic shoes, the impossible wardrobe, the minute hairbrush, and all...seriously living out the Barbie life in our private soap opera.
As the oldest, I was the natural leader. I dreamed up each day's plot and kindly but insistently swapped dolls with one of the little girls because I had to BE a real Barbie. It was crucial as of course my doll was the lead character.
On my home front, I existed in a state of high anticipation awaiting a huge box containing Cousin Donna's entire Barbie collection.
It would arrive one day soon. Donna (much older and living an exciting life similar to Marlo Thomas on "That Girl") promised to send them...a whole slew of dolls, a house, and tons of accessories...what was the hold-up? Chicago was not that far away. Mom wordlessly allowed me to continue my vigil, waiting, watching, and running to the mailbox.
You may be wondering who my doll was.
She was Skipper (dammit!), Barbie's prissy flat chested younger sister. Even her feet were dowdy, molded for sensible flats. I imagined she might grow up to become a nun or a school principal - professional killjoys. Skipper tagged along with the Barbie group, an afterthought, not fitting in, especially around the swimming pool. She would sometimes wash the corvette while the other girls tried on ball gowns and styled their hair.
My Mom detested Barbie.
She didn't say it, but I know she hated all that Barbie represented: a single girl with big plastic boobs in the days of free love and LSD, who lived in a fancy pink house with no mother in there telling her what to wear, to eat, to think.
She didn't want me to get ideas about Barbie and Ken.
Come on, Mom...have you ever undressed a Ken doll? I promise, we were all confused and stunned by the misinformation. We only used him to ring Barbie's doorbell and deliver bouquets of the tiny white flowers growing in the clover. Meanwhile, back at home I was still scouting the mail and imagining the arrival of my promised Barbie collection.
The seed that was planted deep in my soul was not me versus Mom,
was not me deciding whether to embrace the shallow values that Barbie in society appeared to represent, was not even about ever owning a Barbie doll.
Mom didn't want me to grow up and a part of me will never mature past that Barbie summer.
Arrested development deep within me glows, encased in honey-colored amber. I polish, nurture, and, when I'm feeling down, scoot it back to the forefront of my mind when I need something to savor. No wet blanket of adult reality will smother my delicious anticipation and stubborn belief that this box is still making its way to me.
What I knew even as a kid was that no sparkling new Barbie could ever hold a candle to a box of possibilities to excavate, explore, and figure out.
I preferred dolls with real-life experience, whose plastic bodies hinted at their misadventures.
I wanted the Bad Hair Day Barbie
so I could guess the story behind her bald patches and the tangle of what was left. In my mind I fix her hair, adding a new dimension and giving her a new life.
I wanted Disorganized Barbie
so I could sort through her mismatched stuff and create new fashion combos soon to be copied in Paris and Milan.
I wanted Barbie's house in downtrodden condition so I could renovate it,
and her car in need of repair so she could fix it herself.
Not easily being granted what I wanted taught me to tend to my anticipation, to create in my mind new things over and over, different each time.
Stubbornly and creatively, I continue to anticipate the arrival of this package and steadfastly believe in the little girl I"ll always be.
