Barbie

A few years ago, I was working as a writer on an info-tainment show. Each episode had a theme, and one of the themes assigned was “Barbie.” As part of this episode, our host, our production staff, and I were going to attend and film the monthly meeting of a Barbie collectors group.

Now, I had loved playing with Barbie when I was a girl. I remembered how much fun it was to get together with my friends and pretend that our Barbie dolls were doing grown-up things like driving, dating, and going to work. But, as my colleagues and I headed toward this meeting, I could not fathom why any actual grown-ups would still want to get together with their Barbie dolls. Wasn’t anyone over ten officially too old for a playdate?

The meeting was being held at the apartment of one of the group’s members. As we knocked on the door, I wasn’t sure what to expect. A life-sized version of Barbie’s dream house? A totally hot pink interior? The door opened—and revealed a place that looked more like the Pottery Barn catalogue than the FAO Schwarz catalogue. In fact, it looked a lot like my apartment.

The group members were not exactly what I had imagined, either. They all seemed…well, like me. This collectors group was comprised of an architect, a swimwear designer, and other professionals. I couldn’t help wondering why these obviously intelligent adults would be collecting Barbie dolls. But soon, I learned that Barbie was actually an intelligent investment. The price of Barbie collectibles was—and is—soaring, with an original Barbie in mint condition fetching $10,000 or better.

So far, it had been an evening full of surprises. However, the biggest surprise came when I saw “the room.” Once, “the room” had been a guest bedroom. Now, it was completely taken over by Barbie. There were more than seven hundred of them in all: brunette pony-tailed Barbies, blonde Malibu Barbies—even a few Kens. At first, it was a little weird. But, the more I looked, the more I got sucked in. There was the black-and-white “fur” coat with the orange go-go boots that I liked to dress my Barbie in. There was the turquoise and silver evening gown that I cried over when I accidentally ripped its strap. It was like my whole childhood was in that room. And, all at once, I understood why adults would collect Barbies.

As Barbie’s many critics are quick to point out, a Barbie doll—with her tiny waist, ultra-long legs and exaggerated breasts—isn’t a realistic representation of a woman. But that was precisely what was so great about her. Barbie could be a beautiful bride without having to deal with the ups and downs of marriage. She could get a Malibu tan without worrying about melanoma. She could become an astronaut or a doctor without having to pay back thousands in student loans.

Barbie was a fantasy. And sometimes, grown-ups need fantasy, too.