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You might already know from my internet presence that my sisters and I consider ourselves to be thrift store aficionados. We’ve perfected our process. We have a working understanding of what each other is looking for, then we divide and conquer. Vintage Barbie memorabilia is always at the top on my list, followed by Jodi Picoult novels and extra long trousers. You know, the essentials.
I’m not typically interested in the actual dolls. Instead, I gravitate toward paper ephemera, novelty collaborations, even Happy Meal toys. At 29 years old, I no longer have the golden Millennium Celebration Barbie I was promised would be worth a small fortune by now. I actually found one in an antique shop in Cocoa Beach, Florida while this post was still a draft. I simultaneously felt betrayal and relief when I noticed the $35 price tag. While I don’t remember exactly what happened to mine, I probably parted ways with it after finding it impractical to store. Rest assured though, it was unopened.
Let’s rewind a bit.
When my partner and I set off for Tulsa, Oklahoma to spend the holidays with his family, I was thrilled that River City Trading Post was on our itinerary. We browsed the antique booths for hours. When I emerged from the dense aisles with four packs of Barbie valentines from 1994, his cousin asked me a question I didn’t know how to answer.
“How cool! I saw the Barbie Dreamhouse Cookie Kit on your Christmas list. Did you play with them as a kid or are you a collector?”
I racked my brain for a response that didn’t make me sound childish. I had access to Barbies when I was growing up. My sisters played with them, but I didn’t. My Depop likes are pink, white, and Barbie all over much like my merchandise stash that has grown considerably over the years. Even so, I don’t consider myself a collector.
I realized later she’d picked me for secret Santa and purchased the coveted Barbie Dreamhouse Cookie Kit on my list. I was giddy, thrilled to have an excuse to entertain my inner child with a branded cookie set that was miraculously dairy-free.
Something about my polished answer to her question (“It’s just for fun!”) felt inadequate and when something feels inadequate, I tend to obsess about it. I thought about her question on my flight out of Tulsa. I thought about it when I built the edible Dreamhouse a week later. I thought about it when I added her name to the list of people I planned to send a Barbie valentine to and I’m thinking about it now, as I type this.
Why didn’t I play with Barbies with my sisters?
Why is the brand so appealing to me now?
In my never-ending quest for self-awareness, how have I never before considered any of this?
I’m certain that aesthetics play a role. I’m reminded of the article in British Vogue in which Emerald Fennell discussed the use of unassuming fashion in her film, Promising Young Woman. The film rocked my world, and so did the discourse that sprang up in the wake of the internet exploring the genius behind intentionally dressing such a disturbed main character like a Barbie doll.
“I mean, who would be scared of a woman in a floral dress, with her pretty blonde hair spun into a braid, tied together with a ribbon? Who would suspect her? Who would see her coming? You wouldn’t, would you?”
— Dressed To Kill: Emerald Fennell On The Eerily Playful Fashion In ‘Promising Young Woman’
Her words resonated with me, and so did her main character. I’m unabashedly attracted to pastels. My apartment is a crushed velvet dream that complements every evolution of the Barbie color palette. My wardrobe matches — bright and airy florals, wispy cotton, whimsical ruffles and lace. My nail polish is usually sparkly. I find that it perfectly disguises chips and sloppy strokes as well as the lingering darkness I sometimes feel in the depths of my soul.
Let’s fast forward.
I am now in the process of editing my work in progress after soliciting feedback from my family and friends over the holidays. (I call this process “final edits” and then laugh to myself, knowing full well I’ll be writing and rewriting these words in my head until I die.)
In short, I’m writing a book about my struggle with vaginismus, the involuntary tightening of my pelvic floor muscles that made vaginal penetration of any kind impossible for almost a decade. The start of my book focuses on how my childhood impacted my early understanding of sex. It goes on to juxtapose my very private struggle with the aggressive sexual harassment I experienced in the male-dominated industry in which I chose to build a career during my twenties. Mining for trauma makes me feel like a quintessential millennial. Say what you want about that, but it’s hard work.
So I wrote a few sentences, as you do.
“One of the women my dad dated on and off for almost a decade took a particular liking to me. She’d insist on the two of us kissing on the mouth and bathing together under the guise of being best friends. She once offered to shave my budding pubic hair for me so that we could match, and I obliged. She’d whisk me away from my chores to take me shopping at the mall. ‘Your dad doesn’t make the other girls wash dishes and fold laundry!’ she’d say on our way out the door. She was right. My sisters could usually be found upstairs, preoccupied with the elaborate storylines they’d created with their collection of Barbies. The few times I’d tried to play with them were short lived, I was too far behind on the lore of the universes they’d constructed.”
Spoiler alert: Along with the inconspicuous sexual abuse, the woman from the excerpt above goes on to wreak havoc on my relationship with my dad long before I’m old enough to do it myself. Reading the words I’d written about her brought tears to my eyes. When I’m lucky, there’s clarity in my obsession.
I now remember precisely what I was doing instead of playing Barbies with my sisters. I was wrapped up in an inappropriate friendship in which I played support animal to an emotionally underdeveloped adult, one I was made to believe I could trust. I was learning sexual politics against my will from a woman who openly hated my mother and encouraged me to separate myself from my sisters.
I was growing up too fast.
It turns out that aesthetics aren’t the only thing I’m reconciling in my search for Barbie merchandise from the early 90s. Healing my inner child looks a lot like sending vintage Barbie valentines to my family and friends.
Mystery solved! Now, serious question: How do I tell my boyfriend’s cousin?