A Material Girl    by Denise Cassino      June 2005
 

    I was staying in an old hotel in Hollywood, putting the finishing touches on my latest novel, when I left my room in search of a much-needed bite to eat.  As I strolled down the ornate corridor, I heard someone crying, and my writer’s curiosity got the best of me.  I followed the sound down a long meandering passage.  I walked for a distance until I arrived at a round, oak door and the sobbing became louder.  Peeking cautiously into the room, I found a beautiful blonde girl with a perfect figure and a long ponytail weeping vociferously on a huge, round bed covered with a beautiful spread of pink satin.  She was clad in full-length designer Spandex.  Drapes of expensive fabric adorned the room and mirrored closet doors stood open, revealing a tremendous wardrobe of every fashion imaginable.  Copious pairs of shoes lay strewn upon the plush carpet and numerous wigs sat on stands around her mirrored vanity.  I could see through the large windows outside toward her private swimming pool and even beyond to a parking area where exotic cars sat glimmering in the sun.  She wiped her blue eyes and looked up at me.
    “Can I help you?”
    “I’m sorry to intrude, but I heard you crying.  Are you okay?  Is there anything I can do?” I asked.
    She eyed me suspiciously for a moment and then shrugged.  “Oh, I’m such a fool,” she sniffed, blowing her nose loudly.  “I thought all of this,” she swept her arm wide indicating the clothes and cars and jewelry, “would make me happy, but it hasn’t,” she repined, obviously having dispelled the notion that I might be of some threat.
    “I’m sorry. Would you like to talk about it?  My name is Samantha.”
    She bit her lower lip. “I don't know.  I suppose.  My name is Barbie, and I don’t even know where to start,” she said, wringing a damp hanky with both hands.  “It all began in 1959.  The only thing I had back then was a black and white striped bathing suit – strapless, of course,” she said looking down at her rather ample bosom.  “And a pair of spike heels, if you can imagine.  I just about froze to death, and my poor feet are permanently bent to fit in those heels.  It seemed like an eternity that I laid around in that bathing suit until finally somebody had the presence of mind to get me something else to wear.  It was awful.  No wonder Marilyn Monroe committed suicide.
    “One of the first dresses I ever had was a pale blue and white striped sundress with a big ribboned, picture hat and a straw bag adorned with fruit – and spike heels, of course.  Always the matching heels.  I understand that they make my legs look better, but with legs this long, does it really matter?” She extended one bare leg.
    AT a glance, I noticed they were long and shapely, almost flawless, even at her age.
    “Anyway, it wasn’t long before I got this awesome sparkly, black dress that looked like I was poured into it,” she said, running a hand over a still-flat stomach.  “It had a huge flared, tulle ruffle around the bottom and it came with long, black gloves.  It was so hot.  I also loved that navy blue polka dot dress with the balloon skirt and white fur stole.  That’s when it was all still new and exciting and the possibilities seemed endless.
    “But after that, I had to be all things to all people.  I’ve been a princess for every third rate country on earth and talk about active!  Do you have any idea how many sports I’ve had to master, just to wear these outfits – I mean skiing, tennis, ballet, golf, horseback riding.  I’ve been a cheerleader, a diva, a dancer, a biker chick and a red-hot Mama!  I’m simply exhausted,” she lamented, twisting her ponytail with one hand.
    “Have you talked to anyone about this?”
    “Are you kidding?  I’ve talked until I’m blue in the face!  That’s why they introduced me to Ken.  He was cute, but so shallow and materialistic.  Oh yeah, fast cars and fancy clothes are fun for a while, but did the man ever read a book?  Thank God I had Skipper to talk to – she was a lot younger than me, but at least she seemed to care and understand,” she said with a deep sigh. “And Francie is still my best friend.”
    “But surely you’ve lived in fabulous homes and probably done everything imaginable!” I reminded her.
    “Homes, schmomes!  I don’t need a castle!  Whatever happened to the proverbial cottage behind the white picket fence?  If Ken had ever suggested that, I would have thrown it all away just for a cozy place in the country, but no.  It was just one palace after another.  Do you have any idea of how cold palaces are?  And I never even had a decent pair of slippers!  Those ridiculous high-heeled mules with the feather pom-poms – oh yeah, that’ll keep you warm.
    “The pools are nice, and I love to sunbathe, but honestly, the VW bus was so much more practical than any of those sports cars,” she said, tossing a hand in the direction of the garage.
    “It’s always been about image!  What about reality?  I’d give anything for an cozy pair of sweats!  Not designer warm-ups – sweats, cotton sweats – that’s all I want.”
    “Did you ever discuss this with anyone else?  Is this how they all feel?” I asked.
    “You mean my alter egos?  The brunettes and all the other wannabes? Are you kidding?  That’s all we talk about.  All those sleepovers – you can’t imagine the horror stories they've told.  I thought I had it bad, but some of the girls were just stuffed into drawers and cabinets for months on end, wearing the same clothes for days.  Then, tossed aside when a new doll face showed up with a cute hairdo and a better outfit.  It’s sick.  I just don’t understand what it is that the modern girl expects.
    “I’ve seen the world.  I’ve been to Sweden, Spain, Canada, Nigeria, France, and Czechoslovakia, to mention a few.  I’ve practiced every profession imaginable.  I’ve been a stewardess, a doctor, a surgical nurse, a waitress, but I’ve never really had a chance to enjoy any of it.  It’s always on to something new and different.
    “I will admit, I got real used to the yacht – what a treat!  But all the entertaining, the masked balls, the costumes, it’s like being Miss America for life.  I just want to settle down with a great guy. . .”
    I looked at her out of the corner of my eye.
    “. . . no, not Ken – and have a couple of kids.  I’m tired of working out everyday to keep this figure.  Do you have any idea of how hard it is to maintain this waistline?  I’m getting old and tired and nobody but me will admit it.  It’s go, go, all the time, go.”
    I shook my head sadly, thinking how glamorous things often appear from the outside. So much for greener grass.  I stood up as though to say goodbye and Barbie grabbed my hand.
    “Please, take me with you.  Get me out of here.  No one will ever know.  I’ll just disappear into the masses.  I’ll cut my hair, get an nose job, breast reduction!  I’ve got a little money put away.  Please, I beg of you!” she pleaded, squeezing my hand.
    “Well,” I said looking around cautiously, “If you really want to leave all of this luxury, I guess it’s fine with me.”
    She jumped up, pulling a suitcase from under the bed. “I’ll just be a minute.  Let me throw a few things into a bag or two.”
    Suddenly, she was stuffing furs into bags, dragging trunks from the closet, dumping drawers full of jewelry into purses.  And shoes!  She must have put thirty pair of shoes into duffle bags.  I watched for awhile until it dawned on me that no matter how much she protested this materialistic world, it was really all she knew and probably the only thing that could make her happy. I knew she’d never make it in the real world. That's when I slipped out quietly the way I had come, leaving her biting a nail, trying to figure out what else to pack.  In truth, it never would have worked. She was really just a material girl.

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