I would place bets that not many folks have considered the question: Should I be me or be Barbie?” I, however, have considered this question as a result of recent life events, namely deconstruction and the onset of menopause. These events have pushed me to reconsider how I view my world and how I view myself in my world. Thus, I have discovered a definitive answer to the question at hand and would like to share it with you here.

To get started, let’s take a trip to Barbie World, shall we?

Let’s Go Barbie

Love her or hate her, Barbie has been a part of our collective existence since 1959. In contrast, I have only been a part of this existence since 1973, so Barbie has some years on me, but damn, she looks good!

Barbie has been on a roller coaster ride since she was first birthed. From being attacked for her unrealistic body proportions to being praised for her portrayal of women working in male dominated professions, this doll has seen it all.

My childhood toybox was filled with various barbies, and of course, a Ken doll. In fact, begging for and receiving a Malibu Barbie for Christmas is a distinct memory from my youth. I had several barbie accessories including an airplane so my barbies could be passengers or flight attendants. But, much to my chagrin, there were no seats in the cockpit so I could not pretend they were the pilots.

The outstanding clothing, shoe and hat options left an impression on my personal fashion and that impression is reflected in my clothing choices today. My closet has options from across several eras of style and includes an entire upper shelf of hats, from modern fare to pillbox style antique hats. (Happy side note: several of the hats were my grandma’s so it is extra special to wear and share part of her history with the world.)

My fashion sense isn’t the only barbie like trait I possess as my figure reflects her lithe hourglass shape, as well. Not quite to her extreme, but about as close as one can realistically attain. If Barbie were real, she would be 5’9” with a 39” bust, an 18” waist and 33” hips. I am 5’11” with a 36” bust, 24” waist and 36” hips. Yes like several songs from ‘Brickhouse’ to ‘Baby Got Back’ calling out the hourglass 36-24-36 size, that’s me baby.

The shape of my body is 100% natural. It isn’t from dieting or working out or intermittent fasting, it is the result of my genetics and I can take no credit for it, it just is.

The fact is I am built like barbie.

Add to my shape the mane of long blonde hair I possess and you would agree, I look like “stereotypical barbie” from both the toy store box and the recent super hit movie: Barbie. I, of course, attended the Barbie movie adorned in my hot pink Barbie finest. As I walked to a restaurant afterwards a stranger (from quite a distance away) yelled, “Hi Barbie!” to which I, of course, waved back, in good Barbie girl form.

Barbie and Me and Menopause

Barbie’s world is not nearly as simple as people assume and likewise, neither is mine. She has been lauded and despised sometimes within the same era and I find myself in a similar position, if only within my own mind.

I have been on this planet for 50 years and I won’t say all of my prior years have been all sunshine and roses, but I have experienced a fair amount of joy in my past. Then, suddenly I began the ill-fated journey through menopause land. Check that: as that statement makes menopause sound like a spa vacation. Kindly allow me to rephrase: Menopause slammed into me as if I were a crash test dummy in a high speed, head on collision. It rapidly tossed everything I knew about me right through the windshield landing me on the hood with shards of my ideas of self scattered in fragments around my broken body.

The devastating crash was brought on by a partial hysterectomy (meaning they left my ovaries in). Some prior subpar hormonal care and the fact my age was dancing near the fifty-year mark were likely contributors as well, but regardless of the cause, I found myself on the tumultuous sea of full-on menopause with its raging storms and plethora of lightning strikes.

Then Add Deconstruction

Since I am an excellent multi-tasker, I chose to time the deconstruction of my evangelical faith to hit at the exact same time as menopause, cause why not? Ugh, truly, deconstruction was not a choice for me, but a must and it nevertheless struck its height as I struck the lows of my menopausal existence.

It is not an exaggeration to say it would be more enjoyable to be stripped naked, covered in honey and tied out in a field to be attacked by critters that would enjoy devouring me as a tacky sweet treat. (none of which would surely be so cuddly or friendly as good ‘ol Pooh bear).

Now Comes the Cursing (click away now if F-bombs aren’t your jam)

FUCK. That’s the only word that both accurately and succinctly describes how I feel most of the time. As a matter of fact, that word shows itself in numerous places in my world these days. It often rolls off my tongue, sometimes shouted, sometimes whispered and not so often as I’d like, spoken only within my mind.

It also appears on my jewelry – gifted to me for my 50^th birthday by a friend that truly “gets me” and is not offended by my transition. My journal pages are covered with scribbled F-bombs, as well, as I ‘stream of conscious’ write every day to attempt to process the tangled mess of thoughts and feelings buzzing in my brain.

I used to feel shame over saying that word, now I feel a sense of release, or perhaps even power? A well-placed fuck helps me relieve stress as well as give me a much needed giggle once in a while. It remains a word I use with caution, at least around other humans, but alas I would wager I have released more “fuck-clouds” into the atmosphere in this last year than I have in 2 lifetimes of my “former self”.

My “former self” used to be a professional “perfect person and Christian”. Never would I consider telling anyone how I actually felt, but rather I suppressed all original (& unapproved) feelings in deference to “I’m great, how are you?”.

I was taught both from home life and church life that I should always be happy, I should always smile, always be gracious and always put everyone else’s needs/wants/desires ahead of my own. Well, turns out when a gal is busy doing that there isn’t any time leftover for her to follow her own needs/wants/desires. Heck, there isn’t even time to figure out what they are. Instead, I learned to receive my cues on how to behave and what direction to walk in by looking to other people to tell me who I was supposed to be. Kind of like being a doll, huh?

So, Do I Be Me or Be Barbie?

Turns out I am me AND I am barbie and neither of those things are bad. After fighting the idea of myself and my inherent loveliness for nearly 50 years, I am finally arriving at a place where I am learning to love me exactly as I am and to love my shape/look too.

To be clear: I am NOT Malibu Barbie, I am Menopause Barbie with a Special Limited Edition Matchup Combo with Deconstruction Barbie. I will no longer conform to others’ ideas of who I should be and I will ride the waves of both menopause and deconstruction with a sense of humor and a sense of purpose. Sure, I will crash from time to time and its going to hurt like a Mo-Fo, but after my bruises heal, I will be stronger, wiser and dammit, I’m gonna “name it and claim it”, I’ll be sexier too!

Cheers from me, the human Barbie, to you!