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Saying Farewell to Barbie
Dear Barbie,
Parting ways is always a challenge, and this one hits hard. As I closed the Rubbermaid lid over your final resting spot, I couldn’t help but feel a wave of sadness wash over me. I’m truly going to miss you.
Please don’t blame yourself for the end of our nearly ten-year association. It’s not your fault. It’s not even really mine, although I often grumbled about your outfits strewn everywhere, the Dream House resembling a disaster zone, and your Camper taking up prime real estate in the basement. The truth is, we just don’t have the time to cultivate our relationship anymore with soccer, piano lessons, and actual horseback riding (not the plastic kind). We don’t even set aside bath time anymore, which used to be our special moment.
And just to clarify, this decision has nothing to do with your appearance, despite the criticism you’ve endured over the years. I have real-life friends with tiny waists, perfect figures, and flawless hair. They run marathons and practice yoga, yet their beauty goes beyond physical attributes. They juggle volunteering at schools, fundraising for charities, offering support to sick friends, and bringing over banana bread to new neighbors. They are stunning and strong, just like you.
I never expected you to serve as a role model for my children’s body image. That’s my responsibility, and I believe I do a decent job of it. Your role was to ignite my daughters’ imaginations, and you did that and so much more. You inspired them to run a veterinary clinic, a school, and even a clothing boutique. You facilitated elaborate fashion shows, pool parties, and horseback riding escapades. They played house, nurtured babies, and even staged weddings, all while performing surgeries, filling cavities, or flying planes to Disney. You brought endless joy.
And you never once complained. Not when you found yourself in a Corvette with Cinderella Barbie careening down the stairs. Not when a botched haircut left you looking questionable. Not even when a visiting dog caused you to lose a foot. You were always there, ready to embrace whatever adventure came your way, with a smile and dreams in your heart.
Life hasn’t been a cakewalk for you either. You navigated a high-profile divorce, enlisted in the military, faced media scrutiny, and even at 50, you’ve continually been compared to other dolls. Yet through it all, you held your head high, maintained that perfect foot arch, and carried on.
I regret to say, Barbie, there’s no going back. Little girls inevitably grow up, and sadly, it’s time for us to part ways. I’ve already sold the Dream House (at a loss, no less), listed the car, yacht, and plane on Craigslist, and sent your friends—Skipper, the Disney crew, and those other brunette gals—off to Goodwill, where hopefully they’ll find new families. I even found a new home for the Barbie jeep and scooter, so other little girls can enjoy them. This chapter is truly closing.
But I want to take a moment to express my gratitude. Thank you for showing my kids that a ball gown and cowboy boots can be worn for any occasion. Thank you for going along with whatever stories my girls dreamed up for you. Even though your outfits sometimes leaned toward the provocative and your stilettos were sky-high, I appreciate that we could always find a Barbie to embody whatever my kids wanted to be that day—be it a soccer player, princess, surfer, or doctor. I’m sort of relieved we missed your drag queen phase, but I imagine even that would have been a blast.
While I’m tucking you away for now in the attic, your memory will always remain in our hearts and minds. I hope that one day, if I’m lucky, you’ll grace our lives again when my daughters have children of their own. I’ll be ready to welcome you back with open arms, and perhaps even a new eco-friendly Dream House.
Despite being just a doll, you’ve been so much more than that. You’ve served as a gateway to imagination and creativity in our home, and you’ve done it beautifully.
Farewell, Barbie. Until we meet again.
Warmly,
Me
P.S. I’m glad you didn’t take Ken back. I always felt he was riding your coattails. And honestly, no one’s hair looks that perfect all the time.
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Summary
This heartfelt letter bids farewell to Barbie after a decade of imaginative play. The author reflects on the joy and creativity Barbie brought into their daughters’ lives, acknowledging the challenges of growing up and the inevitable parting. While Barbie is being stored away, her impact will remain cherished, and there’s hope for a reunion in the future when the author’s daughters have children of their own.