I’ve written about Barbie before. Once
when my daughter was 10 years old and again when my oldest granddaughter was
the same age. They both went through their “Barbie years,” and both times it
nearly landed me in the poor house.
Barbie’s companionship is not for the
faint of heart or the light of wallet. Everything about her screams “future
trophy wife who’s definitely comfortable living in a style to which guys like
me can afford only on a doll-sized scale.”
She drives a “dream car.” She lives in a
“dream house.” She hangs out with Ken, the “dream date,” who not only does not
speak, but lacks the anatomical equipment which might, on occasion, prompt
Barbie to lie about having a headache. He’s the perfect match for that
narcissistic little minx.
I’m probably skirting the edges of
misogyny here and for that I apologize. But I just don’t like Barbie. I never
have. I resent her. She gets all the breaks and never seems to work for any of
them.
Despite the fact there is absolutely no
record of Barbie’s school years – no diploma, no transcripts, no paperwork
showing she was ever a member of the National Honor Society – she has had over
200 careers since 1959. That’s right, 200 different jobs, most of them either
fun or glamorous in some way.
I know this because of an article I
clicked on while wasting my morning on Facebook instead of writing this column,
which is what I should have been doing.
In the past 60 years and with no special
training, Barbie has been employed as an astronaut, news anchor, firefighter,
pilot and soccer star. She’s even worked as a politician, the only job for
which she may actually be qualified. Possibly even over-qualified.
Now somehow – though she does nothing
but shop and lounge around her “dream pool” with Ken and Skipper – Barbie has developed
a partnership with the real-life National Geographic Society. This has opened
up to her jobs such as wildlife photojournalist, polar marine biologist,
conservationist and even entomologist.
I subscribed to the National Geographic
magazine for 20 years and they never offered me so much as a manure-hauler position at the organization’s annual
Yak Fest picnic.
If that weren’t enough to explain my
lifelong dislike for this 11-inch-tall piece of plastic responsible for giving
generations of young women serious body image issues, her newest “job” is that
of astrophysicist. That’s right, somehow Barbie is now qualified to work
side-by-side with Neil DeGrasse Tyson and Stephen Hawking. (OK, not Stephen
Hawking, but only because he’s dead.)
How did Barbie land this cushy,
high-profile gig? Did she spend 15 years paying off her student loans? Heck,
no! I did, but you don’t see NASA
beating down my door. Well, OK, admittedly,
NASA doesn’t have a lot of use for an English major, but still.
The Astrophysicist Barbie – coming soon
to a store near you – comes complete with a telescope, star chart and (of
course) a fashionable T-shirt featuring a graphic of a nebula. Let me tell you
something, Barbie, it takes more than a 4-inch refractor scope to make an
astrophysicist.
I don’t know what that “more” might be,
but that’s because I don’t know anything about astrophysicisting. But neither
does Barbie. That’s my point!
Just dressing up in a lab coat isn’t
enough.
Mattel, the evil corporate overlord that
created Barbie in the first place, says Barbie’s latest careers are designed to
inspire young girls to strive for greatness, to reach that unreachable star.
Personally, I think it cultivates even
more unrealistic expectations in girls. Now, not only is little Suzy expected
to maintain a perfect physique that exists nowhere in nature, she’s expected to
somehow earn multiple PhDs in fields generally requiring years of laborious
study.
And she’s supposed to do all this while
balancing her extensive social life, her fashion career, her relationship with
Ken … the list goes on. And who’s going to keep little Suzy’s Dream House clean
while she pursues her career? Ken? Fat chance. He’s interested in nothing but
surfing and trying to hide the fact he’s anatomically incorrect.
No, this whole Barbie “dream world” has
to stop and stop now. Or at least before my youngest granddaughter, now only 3,
hits her Barbie years.
As God is my witness, I’m not buying
another Dream House.
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