"Look like a girl. Act like a lady. Think like a man. Work like a boss." ~Anonymous

Friday, February 15, 2013

Even Barbie Isn't Perfect

Author’s Note: This is for the assignment write-whatever-you-want, so while doing a stream of consciousness and came up with Barbie tricycle and came up with a memory from my life--so a personal narrative.  Please note my sentence fluency and imagery.

Glorious.  That's what it was.  I ran my tiny four-year-old hands over the sleek baby pink bar running into the white plastic chair perched between the two back wheels.  Barbie's smiling face stared into my wide-eyed gaze, soon to be covered by my back.  The handle bars shiny white contrast popped against the pink complete with long bright streamers hanging limply down the ends.  The plastic of the pouch fastened to the front was perfectly straight, another picture of Barbie's flawless face plastered across the midst of it.  I grasped the zipper between my forefinger and thumb pulling it apart with a Ziiiiiiiiip. Pulling my various hodgepodge of things out of my pockets, I stuffed it inside.  A cell phone.  A tiny plastic brush meant for my dolls.  A rock I had found on the side of the road.  A fistful of grass I had plucked from my backyard earlier that afternoon.  I was all set.  

I let out a breath of air, I hadn’t realized I’d been holding in as I slid into the seat.  My hands gripped the handlebars so tight, my knuckles turned white.  The sneakers upon my feet were placed upon the pedals.  Subconsciously, my leg muscles pushed onto the foothold propelling me forward.   My driveway was a race track and I was in the lead; the circles I made around the track became wider with each passing one, extending to new depths of the track I had yet to explore. One particular square on the track seemed bumpier than the others, the uneven border between the square I was currently in to the finish line seemed so close.  But I had to make it over.  In the spur of the moment, I pedaled faster hoping that the speed would somehow get me over the top.  My heart pounded as my eyes narrowed in on the crack of the driveway determination setting in.  “Whip, whip, whip,” sang the streamers in the wind.  “Whoosh,” went the wind on my face pushing my sweaty blond curls out of my eyes as I prepared myself for the victory I was certain I would taste.  

Suddenly, I stopped. The back wheels veered upwards into the air and tilted the bike towards the ground, wheeling still turning.  I was confused.  This wasn’t supposed to happen.  I clenched the handlebars tighter, eyeing the ground as it soon met my face.  

I didn’t burst into tears or any of that.  Instead I just I rolled over pushed the bike off of me and stood up. “Pang, pang, pang,” pulsed the pain in my forehead and knees, but I ignored it. Nothing that I could see was bleeding, but still I couldn’t shake this feeling of defeat in the pit of my stomach.  I had lost the race.  That’s when tears began to fill my eyes.  My mom and little brother, along with my grandpa and grandma were packing the car.  We were going to move to a big new house soon with a whole humongous backyard and a new bedroom with sparkly, pink walls.   My mom looked over at me.  Wild curls strung up in every direction, eyes filled with tears, skinned knees and a hurting forehead I probably looked like a mess. All I wanted was to get in the car and drive, drive, drive to our big new white house with blue shutters.  I was tired of the blue house.  “Cassie,” my mom called to me her voice worried yet strained from the stress of the move, “You’re head is bleeding.” Sure enough, I placed palm to my forehead and drew it back.  Blood.  I stared at for a while as if I wasn’t quite sure how it got there. My grandpa crouched down next to me examining my cut, “Sara,” he called calmly out to my mom, “We need to go to the hospital.”  Soon I was in the car, driving away to the blue house like I hoped, but not to the white house.  To a big, white, building called the hospital.  As we drove away, I looked back at my bike still sitting on my driveway; Barbie's face was scuffed and scrapped off the front of the plastic pouch. Barbie wasn't perfect anymore.


  1. I really like this piece. I like how your language and voice were really strong.

  2. Rarely does life turn out to be the untarnished dream that we imagine. Your Barbie bike is a perfect metaphor for these hard facts.

  3. I love this piece! Especially the conclusion, they way you ended was just flat out amazing. Your voice is beyond amazing in this piece. The title is perfect too! I love everything about it!!

  4. I love this piece. For some reason I have been on your bog just reading piece by piece. Out of all the blogs i go to, yours always has the best and they are most entertaining. :) This piece had a really good strong voice and I loved it!

    Soon I was in the car, driving away to the blue house like I hoped, but not to the white house.

    In the sentence above I copied and pates was it supposed to be driving away "FROM" the blue house not "to" the blue house??

    Just wondering...but anyways, I love this piece