Life in Plastic, It’s Existentially Drastic

Plastic, perfect, emotionally detached. Aspirational.

Barbie wasn’t just a doll. She was the first woman I ever envied. She was the first woman I compared myself to. The first one who seemed to have it all figured out. Blonde, beautiful, and deeply unbothered. She didn’t cry in bathrooms or panic over double texts. She didn’t spend twelve years in and out of therapy trying to convince herself she wasn’t “too much.” She just existed. And somehow, that felt like a threat.

She was the first red flag I ever loved. And I’m still not over it.

She didn’t just sell us beauty. She sold us serenity. She looked like someone who never texts twice. Like someone who could be broken up with and still finish her Pilates class. I envied that. Still do. Because the truth is, I’ve never once looked unbothered. I’ve looked hot, I’ve looked haunted, I’ve looked like I was about to fake a voice note just to avoid a man. But unbothered? That’s Barbie-core. That’s elite tier. That’s a woman with no trauma and very good health insurance.

Barbie has had over 250 careers. She’s been an astronaut, a surgeon, a UN ambassador, a paleontologist, and a president. Meanwhile, I once had a breakdown in the cereal aisle because a man named Callum ghosted me after borrowing my Nutribullet. Barbie owns more real estate than any millennial will ever afford and hasn’t cried once about Rightmove. She’s never split rent with a man who “doesn’t believe in cleaning products.” She doesn’t get triggered by a Spotify Wrapped. She doesn’t spiral when she sees her ex’s new girlfriend posting “healed and happy” with a hard launch and a recycled caption.

Barbie is not built for chaos. She is chaos-proof. That’s the seduction.

She was everything I was told to become, but nothing I actually was. Smooth where I had skin texture. Smiling where I had rage. Silent where I had a monologue building in my throat. She was the first woman I projected onto. And it’s been downhill ever since.

She never got ghosted. She ghosted first.

She never apologized for existing. She stood in a plastic box with her arms frozen in confidence and said, “Try me, bitch.”

She wasn’t just aspirational. She was untouchable.

When I look back, I realise Barbie didn’t have to be emotionally detached to survive. She had to be emotionally detached to sell. Because feelings don’t fit in a Dreamhouse. You can’t cry in a four-inch heel. No one wants a doll who pauses mid-date to Google “signs he’s a narcissist.” They want the cool girl. The quiet girl. The one who can land a helicopter, bake cupcakes, and never bring up her abandonment issues.

And somehow, she still ended up with Ken.

A man with no job, no spine, and the energy of someone who says “you’re overreacting” while doing absolutely nothing to help. Barbie deserved better. And so did we.

Signs you might be dating the human version of Barbie:

• Refers to his emotional state as “chill” while repressing 19 years of father issues

• Thinks iced coffee is a personality trait

• Calls you “Barbz” but has never read a woman-authored book

• Uses the word “vibes” to end every argument

• Owns one towel

• Smells like gym ambition and casual misogyny

• Still wears loafers with no socks in public

• Has a “grindset” but no basic empathy

• Thinks your trauma is a “cute quirk”

• Told you he’s not into labels but got angry when you didn’t say you were exclusive

• Asks “what even is feminism?” while playing a Joe Rogan clip

• Has a fitness watch but couldn’t track a feeling if it hit him in the face

Barbie never dated these men. She dated Ken. Who was worse in his own way. Because Ken had no purpose. He was just... there. Lingering. Shirtless. Hoping proximity to Barbie would give him meaning. And honestly? Relatable. That’s most modern dating apps.

But then something miraculous happened. Barbie cracked.

In the 2023 movie, Barbie has an existential crisis. She gets cellulite. She loses her smile. She starts to ask questions. Like, “What is my purpose?” and “Why does everything feel fake?” and “Who the fuck am I when no one is watching?” It was the first time Barbie stopped posing and started thinking. And I loved her more for it.

She went from being a brand to being a woman.

She wasn’t aspirational anymore. She was human. And if you ask me, that’s when she became dangerous.

Because nothing is scarier than a woman who has stopped performing.

Modern Barbie is slightly depressed and incredibly self-aware. She wears Birkenstocks. She makes eye contact in therapy. She knows that perfection is a trap and detachment is not the flex it used to be.

And me? I’m trying to catch up.

I’m still somewhere between Dreamhouse delusion and reality. Still trying to figure out how to be soft without being squashed. Still hoping that one day I’ll look in the mirror and not see a woman trying to live up to a doll.

I grew up. Barbie didn’t. And maybe that’s why I still want her back. Because she made it look easy. Because she never had to explain herself. Because she wore pink and no one questioned her power. Because some days I just want to feel like a woman who is beautiful and blank and untouchable. Because deep down, I still believe in the power of a tiny waist and a silent scream.

She was a red flag in plastic stilettos. A cautionary tale with perfect hair. And she made me want more.

So here’s to Barbie. First of her name. Breaker of wallets. Leader of the delulu-to-depressed pipeline. May she haunt us forever.

May we never fully recover.