On toys and imagination and stories.

When I was little, I made up stories with my toys. Well, of course I did; everyone has at some point, I hope. Mine were mini-dramas, though; most of them were tragic. (Except for the ones I loved the most; they couldn't be put through anything too harrowing, because I loved them.)

The Barbies were subject to the most shit, though. Seriously, I don't know how these ideas popped into my little head, but they did. (My nightmares were crazy too. I had a wild imagination, so as a kid I was pretty fucked up, at least when I was playing alone.) Most of them would end life stripped of everything they ever had (including their pretty outfits), betrayed by imaginary, evil-hearted friends who stood by and watched their respective demises. Sometimes they would be thrown into the Coliseum or some shit, and were devoured by my waiting stuffed animals. One was torn to pieces by sea monsters. (Not literally, of course. Though I discovered early on that Barbies' heads could be easily popped off, that was the extent of my vandalism. For some reason, I have never been able to mutilate an object not meant to be destroyed. It fucks with my conscience. I don't know why. I would never make a good fine artist.) I read a lot of Greek mythology and Grimms' back in those days, and I had lots of fuel for these stories, which, though ending brutally, were fun as hell for me.

However, there was one who was never a part of these games. I think she was a gift from one of my parents' colleagues, or something. She was a collectors' edition Wedding Day Barbie, and I wasn't allowed to take her out of the box. Most of the time she hung out on the shelf, just standing there politely. To tell the truth, I was kind of fascinated by her. She wasn't an average Barbie, big eyes and bright smile. I just Googled her; turns out she's a collector's replica of the 1960s wedding Barbie. And she looked it, though I didn't know how at the time. Her eyes were slightly downcast, classic features, painted lips. But in my opinion, she didn't need me to write her a tragedy; she was already living one.

To me, she didn't look happy. She seemed apprehensive, or even regretful. Perhaps she was rethinking her decision to wed, forever frozen only a few minutes away. (Who was she marrying, anyways? Ken seemed boring and flat; I never owned a Ken.) Maybe she hadn't wanted to get married at all, so why was she doing it? Why was she in the dress, ready to walk down the aisle? She wasn't even wearing an engagement ring. She felt trapped; trapped in her thoughts, trapped in her box, trapped in her sad little life. She was the most beautiful - and the most isolated - of the Barbies I owned, the rest of whom, at the end of the day, always found themselves shoved together into a big plastic bucket. And though she was treated with the respect she could get from a small child, and carefully preserved and dutifully admired, she was the least happy.

This all in my head, at least ten years ago.

I still know where she is. I dug her out, just now, and she still looks sad, though it might now be my imagination and my memory. She's still in her box, though a few times over the years I'd take her out, rebelling, just because I felt I no longer had to listen to that rule. I'd replace her quickly, though; it seemed like sacrilege against the norms of my childhood, to keep her out in the air. I think the rest of my Barbies were given away.

I stopped playing with Barbies a long, long time ago, ashamed that they, through association, had made me into more of a girl than I'd decided I wanted to be. But I still have her.

...

I wonder why I started thinking about this. Probably because I started babysitting for my brother's violin teacher today. Her three kids are adorable, and this afternoon we played with their vast collection of Playmobil figures. (Gawd, I want some so bad now. Like, you have no idea. I would fucking buy some of those stupid toys.) I was a princess. Secretly I'd wanted to be some badass chick with one of those gladiator helmets, but the girls chose my persona for me.

TL;DR: Toys are fun.

Good night.

Olivia

PS. Oh my god are they racist or what. xD