I’ve already confessed to forgery. But I’ve done other hard crimes too.
It’s no secret to anyone who knows me or reads this blog that Barbies were an important part of my childhood. Not in a BFF kind of way, but more in a drug addict kind of way.
During the summers, my sister and I (partners in crime related by blood) would spend the day at Mema’s house while our parents were at work. We were always armed with our Barbies. Mema was our grandmother and lived in a small neighborhood where everybody knew everybody and what color their poop was. The kind of place where everyone locks their doors and peers through the curtains when an unidentified vehicle goes rolling down the street and large masses of kids gathered each morning to play together until sunset.
There was a girl in the neighborhood who had a lot of Barbies. We always liked playing with her. It was so nice to dress our Barbies in different clothes and partner them up with different Ken dolls. But it was always heartbreaking to pack up our Barbie things and leave her cool things behind.
One day, we didn’t.
We had a travel case for our Barbies filled with a small portion of a wardrobe suitable for eleven and a half inches of plastic legs and boobs. In true heist fashion, my sister acted as a distraction while I stuffed our case with Barbie clothes that didn’t belong to us.
At our own home, we were proud of what we did. The girl in my grandmother’s neighborhood never noticed, and we had new outfits for our dolls.
Over time, we felt dirty.
We stopped playing with the items we had stolen, but occasionally we would find a tiny dress that had belonged to neighbor-girl. My sister and I would pretend not to notice and ignore the fact that we were both feeling guilty.
I should probably apologize now, some 20+years later; to my parents, Mema, and to the girl who probably thought the missing Barbie clothes were her brother’s wrong doing.
… and my sister made me do it!
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