Weird Barbie (and Ken) Since Birth

May we all find the courage to be weird.

The Barbie bin in my basement. (I don’t know who that weird small child is either…)

Like a bajillion other people, this summer I went to see the Barbie Movie. I went with two of my daughters and son-in-law and we cried, laughed, cried, and felt seen in so many different ways. I, of course, immediately related to Weird Barbie. And I realized I’ve been “weird Barbie” since birth (although thankfully I don’t always smell like “basement.”)

My two older sisters, whether they wanted to be or not (one did, the other didn’t), were stereotypical Barbies. In fact, I still have the almost perfect, hardly played-with Barbie and a case of beautiful clothes from one of my sisters, who gifted it to my daughter since she only had sons. (No Barbie’s for Boys!). Although my older brother did have a very vintage Ken with dark hair fuzz who I played with. He turned out to be gay (my brother, but probably Ken too).

One of my sisters Stereotypical Barbie. The quality of clothes back then was ACE.

My younger brother had GI Joe’s. Together we would make parachutes out of plastic bags and string and drop our dolls from the second-story windows of our house. They never got hurt, just scuffed up a bit. Then we would go out under the bushes and forage for wild berries and they would camp and live off the land like indigenous people, even though my Barbie at the time probably had blonde hair. It was the era of Malibu Barbie who was always tan and fabulous.

I could never get enough Barbie clothes. My best friend Linda and I would ride our bikes to Laneco, open the plastic clothing packages, stuff everything we could grab into our pants, and ride home. This was before the clothes were sewn, stapled, and bound in metal ties to the impossible-to-open plastic packages — which they probably resorted to because of enterprising kids like us. (For perspective for today’s parents Linda and I had to ride about a mile and a half, first through a suburban neighborhood and then across a busy major road to get to Laneco. We were 8. Bike helmets weren’t invented yet and God knows where our parents were. Linda’s mom was widowed and had 6 [or 8?] kids.) My mother was…distracted. Unless it was time to clean the house. Then she was a tornado of fury. My kids know that I am still haunted by the gold lame Barbie hot pants that I think my own traitor mother threw away. They were perfection. Barbie was so sexy when she wore them.

Before we knew what sex actually was our Barbies were having it. After all, she had BOOBS. I confess, I was sewing and styling clothes for my Barbies until I was 16 which was, sadly, long after I started having “real” sex. Because the truth is when kids are not openly educated about what is ok and what is not ok we are vulnerable to all sorts of predators. I went to church. I was a Girl Scout. That didn’t matter. What mattered was that in the 1970’s the times emphasized a girl’s attractiveness and desirability to men more than anything else. Not talking about sex didn’t make anyone safer, especially me. It just made me more vulnerable to males of all ages. It felt like a compliment that they wanted to have sex with me, even though NONE OF THEM knew what the hell they were doing, which made it completely unsatisfying…for me. Not that it ever occurred to them that I wanted satisfaction too.

I have since had three daughters. I’ve talked to them as openly as possible about sex and what is okay and not okay: Sexual pleasure is okay and normal, nothing to be ashamed of. But be safe — use condoms and birth control. It’s ok to say no. And if you do have sex, make sure it is accompanied by love because sex without love is not as fulfilling. I trust them to make their own choices and decisions and don’t pry into their private lives (but I am always available if they want to talk).

My oldest played with Barbie a lot. She played with her three cousins in my oldest sister’s Barbie Paradise basement. My second daughter was more of an American Girl fan (no boobs, lots of adventures) and Polly Pockets. And my youngest was super into her sister’s Polly Pockets and later American Girls. But they all played with everything, hence my plastic bin of well-used Barbies from the past 60 years. And whether they like it or not, their Mom (me) has been a Weird Barbie since birth.

Which brings me back to the movie. There was only one part I vehemently disagreed with. And that’s the part where the inventor of Barbie tells Barbie that “we mothers stand still so our daughters can look back and see how far they have come.” Uh, no fucking thanks. This weird Barbie mom will only stand still when I am dead and even then I’m just flying off to somewhere else. We women have way farther to go yet before we can stand still other than to take a rest now and then, which is in itself a form of weird rebellion.

Seriously! Maybe a stereotypical Barbie still in her plastic packaging is standing still, but any Barbie that has been played with, toyed with, tossed aside, loved, tossed aside again, thrown from a window, driven in a plastic car, or snuck off with Ken (or Allen, or another Barbie for that matter) to have fake sex is a little bit weird. Being weird means we are fully alive and living our truth. Being weird means we aren’t afraid of being different and unique. Being weird means we are having more fun.

Even Taylor Swift, who let’s be honest looks like a stereotypical Barbie, is a weird one. She has broken all the rules! She is living her true self in front of more people than anyone else in history (I’m guessing). She’s singing her stories of love, loss, being tossed aside and found again, and having sex with who knows how many people without being ashamed. And the clothes! So many sparkles!

Super girl power menage a trois. When did Barbie get elbows that bend?!

I have seen a lot of articles and memes about how Taylor Swift, Greta Gerwig (the director of the Barbie movie), and Beyonce have “broken the glass ceiling,” “saved the economy” and smashed all sorts of box office and concert attendance records. It’s about time. It is our time. Not for standing still, but for stepping forward and letting our weirdness flag fly. If we can dream it in our basements (and bedrooms), we can be it!

In my basement, and in my life, good times were had by all. It’s not too late for you to have fun and be weird too. I’m not stopping any time soon.