I've come to realize something as I get older...trying to be Barbie is fucking hard. A couple of things should have clued me in early on:
First, according to varying accounts, Barbie's height is somewhere between 5'9 1/2 and 7'2. My height, according to varying accounts (or depending on which convenience store I'm racing out of), is somewhere between 4'11 5/8 and 5'2. Second, as I realized for the first time at age 27, and for the second time at age...um, around seven months ago - Barbie doesn't have kids: which is not surprising, considering she doesn't have a vagina, and a c-section scar would have marred that nauseatingly taut abdomen.
It's not that I didn't try. I purchased the tatas in 2001, spent the better part of a decade streaking, highlighting, and flat-ironing the requisite blonde tresses, wore stilettos in varying heights, bronzed myself in increasingly high-tech beds, and (for a few years) resided in a gulf coast town. I dated Nerdy Good Guy Ken, Rocker Ken, Rich Ken, and of course, a few Asshole Kens (which is amazing, considering the dolls I had growing up didn't have assholes OR weiners).
Then one night a couple years ago, my (then) two-year old was sitting on the toilet seat, watching me in awe as I put in colored contacts, applied false eyelashes, shaped my brows, and carefully prepped my lips with lip plumper in preparation for a date with (future husband) GI Joe. As I spritzed on perfume and smoothed my hair, I asked my round-eyed little boy how I looked. With a child's inevitable honesty, he replied "Just like Mrs. Potato Head!"
Sexy, huh.
Now (a few years, a marriage, and another child later), I've decided I'll have to let some things go. For one thing, I've realized that unless I also intend to invest in Botox and chemical peels, the tanning is either going to have to come out of a bottle or I'm just gonna have to rock the pale skin (which is "ethereal" when it's a good day, and "wow, you look like you just got punched under both your eyes" when it isn't). My four-year old wears my stilettos more often than I do (and come to think of it, his toes are painted more often as well). I'm not enough of a Houdini to keep my 7-month old from pulling my false eyelashes off and eating them, so those are gathering dust as well.
I'm keeping the blonde and the boobs though.
First, according to varying accounts, Barbie's height is somewhere between 5'9 1/2 and 7'2. My height, according to varying accounts (or depending on which convenience store I'm racing out of), is somewhere between 4'11 5/8 and 5'2. Second, as I realized for the first time at age 27, and for the second time at age...um, around seven months ago - Barbie doesn't have kids: which is not surprising, considering she doesn't have a vagina, and a c-section scar would have marred that nauseatingly taut abdomen.
It's not that I didn't try. I purchased the tatas in 2001, spent the better part of a decade streaking, highlighting, and flat-ironing the requisite blonde tresses, wore stilettos in varying heights, bronzed myself in increasingly high-tech beds, and (for a few years) resided in a gulf coast town. I dated Nerdy Good Guy Ken, Rocker Ken, Rich Ken, and of course, a few Asshole Kens (which is amazing, considering the dolls I had growing up didn't have assholes OR weiners).
Then one night a couple years ago, my (then) two-year old was sitting on the toilet seat, watching me in awe as I put in colored contacts, applied false eyelashes, shaped my brows, and carefully prepped my lips with lip plumper in preparation for a date with (future husband) GI Joe. As I spritzed on perfume and smoothed my hair, I asked my round-eyed little boy how I looked. With a child's inevitable honesty, he replied "Just like Mrs. Potato Head!"
Sexy, huh.
Now (a few years, a marriage, and another child later), I've decided I'll have to let some things go. For one thing, I've realized that unless I also intend to invest in Botox and chemical peels, the tanning is either going to have to come out of a bottle or I'm just gonna have to rock the pale skin (which is "ethereal" when it's a good day, and "wow, you look like you just got punched under both your eyes" when it isn't). My four-year old wears my stilettos more often than I do (and come to think of it, his toes are painted more often as well). I'm not enough of a Houdini to keep my 7-month old from pulling my false eyelashes off and eating them, so those are gathering dust as well.
I'm keeping the blonde and the boobs though.
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