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Why Dr. Barbie Wears What She Wears

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As many of you have suspected, one person alone cannot write a column of this magnitude. Which is why I have an entire network of contacts who provide me with fresh, significant ideas on a regular basis.

One of my best contacts works at a national magazine and feeds me tidbits on the understanding that I will never reveal her name (Kate).

Every now and then something will cross her desk that is so beneath the standards of her own publication that she will call me with it.

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“This is so stupid,” she said the other day, “that I thought of you immediately.”

Thank you, I said modestly.

“Barbie,” she said.

The Butcher of Lyons? I said. One very bad dude.

“Not that Barbie, you twit,” she said. “The Barbie doll. She’s 30.”

Oh, yeah, I said. I’ve already seen something on it. It is a typical “brite,” which is newspaper lingo for any story that doesn’t make you upchuck at the breakfast table.

“But I’ve got a new angle,” she said. “My magazine went out and bought some Barbies and I’ve been playing with them. . . .”

Are you sure you want to tell me this? I asked. I’m not a licensed therapist.

“And guess what Dr. Barbie wears under her uniform?” she said.

Who’s Dr. Barbie?

“Dr. Barbie is Barbie dressed up like a doctor,” she said. “This is to show young girls that they can become fully realized human beings in their own right.”

But I thought Barbie was supposed to be a kid, I said. How can she be a doctor?

“Have you ever seen the body on a Barbie doll?” my source (Kate) said. “This is no kid. Anyway, there’s a Dr. Barbie and a Nurse Barbie. Dr. Barbie’s doctor equipment is all in pink. She even has a cast that is pink.”

Uh, this is very cute, but I don’t see a column here.

“Wait, wait,” she said, “I’m getting to the good part. It’s what’s underneath Dr. Barbie’s uniform that I’m calling about.”

My office does not allow phone sex, I said. We have strict rules.

“Underneath Dr. Barbie’s doctor’s uniform is . . . a disco outfit!” she said.

What’s a disco outfit?

“Well,” she said, and then I heard the sound of tiny snaps unsnapping, “it’s sort of a shimmery bustier kind of thing. What all women doctors wear under their doctor duds, right?”

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I’m not sure I am fully appreciating the sociological significance of this, I said.

“Dr. Barbie is attempting to tell young women they can be professionals and still maintain their femininity,” she said.

By wearing disco outfits underneath their clothes while performing surgery?

“Exactly,” she said. “You do a little open-heart, wash up and then, snap, snap, snap, and it’s disco fever! In other words, a woman can be a successful human being if she has . . . can you fill in the blank?”

Probably not.

“Barbie teaches girls that they can be successful human beings as long as they have the right outfit!” she said.

Aren’t you making a little too much out of this? I mean it’s only a harmless doll and. . . .

“It is not harmless!” she yelled. “It’s the Stepford Wives! It’s one woman going up to another and saying: ‘We’re going on a picnic, got an outfit?’ Don’t you see the insidious nature of this?”

Well, no.

“And it gets worse,” she said. “Have you heard about Barbie’s friend?”

Ken?

“Not Ken, you idiot,” she said. “Ken is Barbie’s lover. I’m talking about her friend.”

Can’t lovers be friends?

“Name one,” she said.

You got me there, I said. OK, I’ll bite. Who is Barbie’s friend?

“Whitney,” she said. “And guess what two things are noticeable about Whitney?”

I can’t say it in a newspaper.

“No, no,” she said. “The two things that are noticeable about Whitney is that Whitney is a brunette.”

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And?

“And she is not as pretty as Barbie!”

So?

“So don’t you get it? Don’t you get the subtle message this is sending?”

Maybe you should tell me.

“Only blond, WASPy Barbies are pretty and not brunette Whitneys is the message, you dope!” she said. “It is a subtle denigration of womanhood and reinforces stereotypes about conventional standards of beauty.”

You’re right, I said. And I am incredibly outraged.

“You’re lying,” she said. “You’re not outraged at all. You’re just thinking about how you can make a snotty, sarcastic column out of this, giving yourself all the good lines and making me sound like an idiot.”

Nothing could be farther from the truth, I lied.

“But it doesn’t matter,” she said. “Because we are strong; we’re invincible. And we’re just waiting for the Columnist Barbie to come out.”

Let me guess. . . .

“That’s right,” she said. “You open up her head and there’s nothing inside.”

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