I recently saw in the news that someone has made a new doll
for girls—I call it the Anti-Barbie Doll.
Instead of being slender and blond, it is dumpy-looking, with brown
hair, wide hips, and thick ankles. It
also comes with optional stretch marks, acne, tattoos, and bruises. Bruises? Although, I first thought this was some
sort of parody, it turns out this new doll is meant to combat the trauma caused
to little girls throughout the world who have played with Barbie. After all, how can any young girl hope to
live up to the standards set by a plastic toy?
I can’t wait until they come out with the male version of
this doll. I suspect it will be bald,
have a pot belly, and have hair growing on its back. Ingrown toenails, warts, and nose hair will
be optional. All those young boys who have lost their self esteem from playing
with G.I. Joe dolls can be saved by playing with a doll that represents what
they will look like later in life. I can’t
wait to buy one and stick it my son’s face and say, “HERE’S YOUR FUTURE, BOY!
BWAAAAAHAHAHA!”
Although I played with G.I. Joe dolls as a child, I don’t
think that is what caused my self esteem to suffer. I believe it had more to do with the Christmas
pig. Let me explain.
I had an Aunt who, every year for as long as I can remember,
would send me a pig for Christmas. I do
not know why she did this, but may have had something to do with the time I
caught a squirrel in her backyard and put it in her dryer for safe keeping. When
she opened the dryer door, the squirrel shot out between her legs causing her
to toss a load of clean laundry into the air.
To quote the Queen of England,
she was not amused.
Ever since then, I got a pig in the mail for Christmas. The
pigs came in a variety of poses. Some were skiing, or dressed as elves, or
just lounging au natural. I puzzled over
this for many years. What was she trying
to tell me?
One year, while I was stationed in Germany, I decided to
sell my motorcycle. A couple of young
Army soldiers wanted to buy it, so they came to my apartment to discuss the
transaction. As they sat in my living
room, they noticed the large number of pigs ornaments on my book shelf.
One of the soldiers inquired, “Is that a pig up there?”
“Yes,” I answered, suddenly self conscious about the pigs.
The soldier pondered the pigs for a moment and then, with a
tone that conveyed a sense of uncomprehending bewilderment, simply said,
“Pigs.”
Suddenly, I understood how my aunt had crafted her revenge
for the squirrel incident long ago. She
had been sending me pigs for years which I had dutifully placed around my apartment
because, what else would you do with pig
ornaments? There they sat, like a
ticking pig time bomb waiting for that critical moment when some random
stranger would trigger the destruction
of my self esteem with the simple utterance of the word, “Pigs.” Well played, auntie, well played.
Of course, it is the duty of every good parent to pass on
their emotional problems to their children.
While recently discussing Christmas present ideas with my daughter,
she asked me if she would be getting a
pig in her stocking again this year. I
was surprised by this. I had been
unaware that I had been buying pigs for my daughter. Then, it suddenly occurred to me that her
house was cluttered with pigs that I have given her over the years. Without knowing it, I was slowly sabotaging
my own daughters sense of self esteem.
When the pig bomb goes off, it will not be a pretty scene. I should have just got her a Barbie
doll.
