camparigirl wrote yesterday about Sports illustrated asking Barbie to model for their annual Swimsuit issue. Actually she wrote about Mattel agreeing to let Barbie model for Sports Illustrated – and wondered why they would do that. Me, I don’t give a damn – unless she was coerced, she’s welcome to pose wherever she wants. What interests me is that S.I. would think their male readers would want to see a Barbie in their most-read issue of the year. Is that where male masturbatory fantasies reside right now – in plastic dolls?
Then there’s the headline: “The Doll That Started It All”. All what? Sexism? Posing naked for sticky paged magazines? The worship of big boobies? Seems a unfairly heavy weight for a tiny bit of plastic to carry on her own.
Aah – you know what, I don’t even care about that. Whatever floats. Mine is a middle-aged life where I don’t have to compete with any big-boobed babe … plastic or otherwise. Actually – I never have. They had what they had and I had what I had. The size of my chest has never mattered to me. What beat inside it did.
I would love to have a great pair of legs, though. Legs with no swag or drape or crepe or slack. Legs that go on for days and that can propel a swimsuit across a beach with confidence. Legs that don’t dance to the words. Legs that can can. Eh, but it’s too late for that now.
No wait, what am I saying – my legs are just fine. They’ve taken me around many blocks and clocked up the miles. They’ve had me walking into and out of trouble. They’ve kept me moving forward when I am exhausted. They’ve stood tall, they’ve bent to help. They’ve had some fun. And they have kicked some butt. So, if they are looking a little worse for wear, they’ve earned it.
And my heart, housed in this bony, flat, pigeon-chest of mine, has kept me honest.
Barbie is a year older than me, posing in a swimsuit couldn’t have been easy for her. But she had to do it – she has to keep selling herself to stay relevant. And I don’t. Lucky me.
(All images found in the public domain.)