KEN’S STORY: Sometimes I miss her. The smell of her. Her long blond hair. We get to visit sometimes; kids still want us to be together. They dress us up, her in a white gown, me in a suit and tie, and they march us down the aisle. It’s incredible how painful this is for me, especially because she won’t look me in the eye as it’s happening. And forget the honeymoon. All those imagined romantic nights in Hawaii or Tahiti. I just get iced out. You’ve never met a woman who could project such sangfroid. That’s the thing. When she turns on the charm she’s irresistible, but once she’s against you she’s a cold bitch.
We used to love being together. We’d go on holiday, visit the beach and hold hands at the carnival. She used to love nothing more than to pick out my outfits and co-ordinate her accessories with mine.
And then something happened. She got ambitious. She forgot how wonderful it was to just be together and started wishing for something more, for something else. I didn’t realize how much of a success she was until the day I stopped at the bar on the way home from work and people recognized me. Aren’t you Ken, Barbie’s husband? they asked. We’re not married, I told them. Not really.
Somehow that simple fact made what I did seem like it wasn’t so bad. To me, at least. We weren’t married. Barbie was so busy being a pilot, taking care of the ponies on her farm, and designing her very own line of shoes that I figured she wouldn’t notice if I got a little on the side. And if she did, I figured she wouldn’t care.
Sometimes it’s easy to forget we were made for each other.
***
SKIPPER’S STORY: I don’t remember having parents. Barbie was it for me. My sister took care of me, made sure I had food and clothes and everything I needed. Even when she met Ken, the two of them would take me to do fun things, like have ice cream or go to the fair. But then she got really busy. It wasn’t enough for her to stay at home with us, she needed a career.
I recognized something in her when she first started reading about the women’s lib movement. First she wanted to be a secretary, and that was okay. She still had time to hang out and cook our dinner. But then she wanted a house, a “dream house,” and being a secretary wasn’t enough. She wanted to be a doctor. A lawyer. An astronaut. She got the house, and the pink convertible, and more clothes and careers than any girl should ever have.
But I got Ken.
One night, when Barbie was out attending a fundraiser for some stupid museum, we were sitting eating the pizza we’d been forced to order every night for two weeks because she was too busy to make us anything, despite being both a chef and a professional pastry maker. I was feeling lonely and abandoned, so I put my head on Ken’s shoulder as we watched TV. You know, just for some comfort. I was surprised when he turned his head and kissed me. It was amazing. Barbie’s boyfriend, kissing me! Over the next couple of nights our relationship developed, and eventually we found ourselves in bed.
When Barbie found my panties in their room she said she’d never felt so betrayed. Then she left us. She just climbed into that hot pink convertible and drove away.
The other day, I saw that she had a new line of accessories for sale at Town. I called Ken to come see — they were so pink and tacky — but he just didn’t seem as interested in making fun of her as he used to be.
He keeps telling me to grow up, which isn’t fair, because he knows I can’t. I’m stuck in perpetual teenager-hood, constantly younger and cuter than Barbie, and yet somehow less than her too. My accomplishments are limited. Gymnast. Babysitting. Dog walking. No one advertises that Ken ended up with me.
I was made to be a wholesome girl without all my sister’s sex and sass. Instead, I’ve ended up wanting to be her, just like everyone else.
***
BARBIE’S STORY: I’m not sure I’ve ever been so tired. I’ve been working around the clock. It isn’t easy wearing all the hats I do, being a fashionista, Olympian, and the first lady president of the United States of America. Not only that, but doing this hair every morning takes hours. I’ve considered cutting it, but it’s kind of my thing.
Here’s a fact: this isn’t real life. In real life, someone who looked like me would never be allowed to be president.
It isn’t real life, but it’s my life and as much as I try to avoid reading all the lies written about me in the papers, sometimes I just can’t help it. And it hurts.
They say my dimensions are unrealistic. That, despite all my accomplishments, I’m not a “real” woman, and that if I were I’d have to haul my breasts around in a wheelbarrow. So stupid.
Or that I’ve hurt the women’s movement. That I set an unattainable standard for little girls. I make people feel bad that they’re not white and blond. I make people anorexic because they wish they were this thin.
I have branched out. Now I wear saris and harem pants. I have black friends. I wanted to be someone girls would look up to. I have had so many careers, I hoped this would inspire girls to be anything they wanted to be. But no one seems able to look beyond the fact that I am busty and blond and beautiful.
I didn’t choose to look like this. I can’t help who I am.
I strip off my clothes and fill the tub. I had this bath specially constructed in my dream house in Malibu after I left Skipper and Ken behind in my original dream house. I pull my hair up in a scrunchy, and climb into the pink marble tub. As I sink into the bath, I realize I am alone.
My feet are killing me, and I rub the instep. It isn’t easy when you are physically unable to wear anything other than heels. My feet always ache. My back always hurts. Forever is a long time not to be able to stand on your own two feet.
Despite all that I am, I’m reliant on other people to move me forward.
Every now and then, a kid who doesn’t know what happened with Ken and I will bash us together and make kissing noises. Sometimes, a particularly misinformed child will pull all our clothes off and mash us together, leaving us naked, lying against each other for hours.
This is when I am particularly glad we are so anatomically incorrect.
The last time this happened, I felt Ken’s hand stroking my back.
Maybe next time I’ll ask him for a back rub. Ken used to give great back rubs.
Perhaps the next time someone tries to make us kiss I’ll open my mouth a little bit, just to see what happens.
I lean back in the bath, and let myself imagine going home.
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