Eat Your Heart Out, Carrie Bradshaw!

 

Last week I binged on And Just Like That, the final chapter in my beloved Sex in the City series.

I came away from that last scene all warm, fuzzy, satisfied. Well, sad that it was the last chapter, but satisfied that it had a very right ending. Not the usual girl-gets-boy, not…anything, really. Just, as a single gal who’s getting on in years, a, like a say, right ending.

Looking closer, though, I wondered exactly what has always drawn me to Carrie Bradshaw and her friends, in her life, in her wonderfully funky existence? And it hit me. She’s kind of like another beloved character out of the pages of my life. Barbie.

Yes. Barbie. My childhood idol, my childhood role model, my childhood friend. Barbie. The woman who transported me from the comfortable, cozy walls of my little bedroom in Pasadena, Texas, to the beautiful, fantastic adventures that only an imagination can ever go.

I accompanied this friend, this Barbie, as she led the cheerleading squad — well, I never was quite sure just where she cheered; I just know she wore a nifty cheer-leading uniform.

She and I tended to the sick at some undisclosed hospital where she was on staff as a registered nurse, complete with the sharp white hat and impressive blue cape.

I shopped in Paris with her. I tended her fashionable boutique. I cooked with her in her lavish, ultra-modern house. I sang a solo in the spotlight at some swank club with her. We roamed the friendly skies as airline stewardesses. Oh, and of course we did the prom thing. She and I picnicked together, swam together, modeled together, taught school together and yet managed to attend school at the same time.

And, then, unfazed by all this exhausting sprinting around the globe, Barbie and I still managed to slip into a beautiful pink peignoir—with our hair and makeup still pristine—and retire until the next day.

For the changing interests in today’s girls, she has even ventured into the world of space. She takes modern girls along on her journeys as an astronaut. If I’m not mistaken, I believe she has even dabbled her tiny feet in the swirling waters of politics.

Interestingly yet ironically, she owned a warehouse of wedding dresses, one to keep up with every style-trend imaginable; yet, sadly, I don’t think she ever actually got married.

Barbie. No last name. Just Barbie. You might think she was an experienced, older woman of the world, considering the limitless activities I just mentioned; but, ah, no. She was merely a teenager. Really.

In fact, when she made her debut in the hearts of girls all over the world in 1959, she was described as “New for ’59, the BARBIE doll: A shapely teenage fashion Model! Retail price $3.00…” Yes. A teenager.

The funny part? Barbie might have been sort of an imposter. She was designed by Ruth Handler, who supposedly modeled the doll after a smoldering, long-popular, sort of exotic prostitute character from a German comic strip, Bild Lilli. The Germans designed a doll after a sultry semi-porno character, and she bears an extremely remarkable resemblance to Barbie—or rather, Barbie bears an extremely remarkable resemblance to Lilli. (Bild Lilli, alas, came first).

BILD LILLI

Ah.

But, whereas the German Lilli is a very sultry, exotic grownup, her American twin, Barbie, is the wholesome girl next door with 36-26-36 measurements, sleek Cleopatra eyeliner and perpetually kissing lips. Handler named the American bombshell—who walked into American history wearing nothing but a sexy black-and-white one-piece swimsuit—after her daughter, Barbara.

And let me tell you. Barbie didn’t waste any time getting right down in the trenches with the rest of the girls in the dating department. You would have thought that, with her exquisite looks and her dynamite Marilyn Monroe figure — not to mention her conveniently unexplained, mysterious wealth—she could have had any man she wanted.

But, no. To this day, no one has really been able to put a finger on why this classy, well-educated (and I can only guess at this, since she did lead a cheer leading squad, she had to have attended school somewhere), beautiful dame never elevated beyond dating a penniless, playboy good-for-nothing, although extremely good looking (if you went with the molded hair type in those early days) gigolo.

Poor Ken, though. For him, it was always Barbie’s house, Barbie’s car. To my knowledge, this lothario Ken never even owned a car. No pride! But as long as Barbie tolerated it, who was Ken to—as Paul Simon said—blow against the wind?  I suppose we can’t blame the plastic Romeo, can we?

No other doll in the magical world of kid-dom has probably been plunked in so many imaginary scenarios. My Barbie—the blonde model—played Jane to a teddy bear (yes, a toy bear, as I did now own a Ken doll yet) Tarzan. She was a movie star. Sometimes she was a housewife; and, again, faithful teddy bear enacted the role of her husband; but, fortunately, Teddy Bear never had any complaints. I’m sure Teddy Bear grasped the old motto, It’s a tough job, but somebody’s got to do it.

 Curiously, though, my Barbie never played—in my imagination anyway—the role she was created to be. A teenager. She was much too sophisticated, too culturally advanced, to be just a kid.

But…

Why does Barbie and her glory remind me of Carrie Bradshaw?

Because I realized, after watching the last episode of And Just Like That, that maybe one of the biggest attractions to Carrie and her life was that she reminded me of a real-life, walking, talking Barbie. A gorgeous, successful, wildly free dame in a gorgeous, wildly wonderful city.

I realized that Carrie, like Barbie, had, in all the seasons I’d known her, never, never, never seemed to wear the same exquisite, beautiful, dazzling outfit twice. And then there were Carrie’s shoes. A closet—or was it actually more than one closet?—dedicated to shoes. Just shoes. Expensive shoes, glorious shoes that glittered, had high, high heels and wild designs.

Carrie, like Barbie, was fiercely independent. Well, until Mr. Big came along. Then, unlike Barbie who had masses of wedding gowns yet never really married, Carrie actually wedded her Ken.

The world tripped through the world with Carrie and her amazing technicolor costumes. We loved when she loved. We cried when she cried. We dreamed of her fabulous wardrobe. We imagined ourselves in all the trendy restaurants, writing with Carrie at her desk with the city view window every night, just being cool.

And that is why Carrie is kind of a Barbie of our generation. The way we dream along with her, just like we do with Barbie.

Before Carrie, though, the nubile 11-1/2-inch Barbie grasped the world of the free-spirited, uninhibited single woman. Sex in the City? Barbie invented sex in the city!  Did she sit around moping and writing about dates with loser guys? Nah. She never subjected herself to that; just kept ol’ Rico Suave Ken on a leash, always keeping her own ego on a secure pedestal.

Oh, Barbie, my hero.

Barbie was everything every girl wanted her to be. Any career. Any nationality.  Any hair color. Barbie just was.

So eat your heart out, Carrie Bradshaw! Even though I fantasize about your fabulous life, I admit. You can never be half the woman Barbie is. Only in your dreams!

But, then, think about it. Can anyone compete with a beautiful, sexy, talented, sophisticated girl who has been around for 69 years and yet is still … a teenager?  Try and beat that, Carrie.