sure, i had barbies as a kid. but only the bare minimum number of barbies that was required of my gender. i also found it perfectly acceptable that my skipper and my ken could perform sexual feats that my young brain did not yet know where physically impossible, such as a position i named “the lover’s leg-lock” (dvda, eat your heart out).

my younger sister, in contrast, had probably over two dozen of these 36-24-36 wonder-women as well as the barbie dream house, which occupied a significant amount of space in our then-shared bedroom. and then there was my best (and only) female friend at the time, who had an entire room dedicated to the lady in pink.

i somehow resented having these bitch dolls in my space and it became unleashed in strange ways. like the day my sister came home to find skipper hanging from the ceiling fan because, as i explained, “the pain of adolescence was just too much for her”. or the day my best friend’s barbie mustang went flying off the second floor flight of stairs because ken had “had a few too many at the company holiday party”.

i wasn’t trying to scar them for life. i was trying to teach them important life-lessons. of course, as a ten year-old girl, i was fully qualified to teach these lessons.

perhaps i shouldn’t be allowed to have a vagina.

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