Growing up, there were two types of dolls—American Girl dolls and Barbie dolls.
The American Girls resembled real girls. They looked my age and had accessories, like eye-glasses and four-poster beds.
They were boring.
Unfortunately for the American Girls, there weren’t any American Boys. This is where Barbie came in.
With Barbie’s heaving breasts, high heels, and made-up face, she was DTF. And there were Kens. Lots of them. Barbie literally changed the way I played with dolls.
I could switch from having tea with the American Girls to a Barbie and Ken bang session—all in one afternoon.
Discretion was key.
I could have played Barbies in private to avoid the charade, but I preferred to play in the living room. In our family of six, the living room had all the action. I wasn’t about to miss out for the sake of decorum.
Plus “boundaries” aren’t really my thing.
The coast was NOT clear.
My siblings, who are normal, sometimes opted to play alone in their rooms.
I didn’t understand it.
Melissa was especially good at locking out family—me in particular.
I hated being left out and desperately wanted to know what Melissa was doing in there.
One day, I hatched a brilliant plan.
I artfully dramatized my departure.
My mother took forever to get the hint.
Despite my mother’s meddling, the plan remained on track.
I began to sprint.
At top speed, I launched my 60-pound self against the door.
Shoulder bruised, but high on adrenaline, I scanned my surroundings.
My eyes locked with Melissa’s, a look of horror etched on her face.
In front of her was Ken, lying naked on top of Barbie in the four-poster bed. An American Girl doll lay by the wayside.
As quickly as I arrived, Melissa threw me out, slamming the door behind me.
We spent the reminder of our childhood pretending The Incident never happened.
I never looked at that boring four-poster bed the same.