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- The Slimmest Chubby Girl
by Jessica Lane
Updated: March 23, 2021
Originally Published: July 27, 2015
A few years back, while assisting my mom with a move, I stumbled upon my childhood friend-turned-foe, Barbie. But this time, it wasn’t a single doll sitting on a shelf or a few stashed away in an old box. No, I uncovered 47 (yes, forty-seven) versions of her crammed into a bright blue container hidden beneath my bed. Their legs were bent in peculiar positions, hair a tangled mess, and they were all without clothes—displaying their tiny waists, flat chests, and absent bits for all to see.
For reasons I still can’t grasp, I spent the rest of that chilly January day rifling through the collection. My fascination with Barbie started long before I ever owned one. At just 5 years old, I knew I had to have her. When I finally received my first Barbie for my birthday, I was over the moon. But one wasn’t enough; one led to two, and two led to 47—a full-blown obsession.
By the time I hit 12—armed with a training bra and all the awkwardness of preadolescence—I began exploring bodies, both Barbie’s and my own. I’d lie on the carpet next to my bed, trying to flatten my stomach like hers, and play “Naked Barbies Around the World,” where I’d place one of my unclothed Barbies on a spinning globe to decide her next rendezvous with Ken. I didn’t realize it then, but looking back, I know I was using her to examine myself.
As Barbie shed her clothes, I began piling on mine—oversized shirts and baggy jeans became my go-to. I found myself diving deeper into food, diets, and the many ways to shed pounds. School lunches became the first casualty in my quest to “save money.” I started stashing food everywhere—not to eat, but to hoard—in my backpack, locker, desk, and dresser. I mastered the art of saying I wasn’t hungry even when my stomach was growling. I began eating alone.
Before long, I was counting calories, waist-deep in what doctors would later label EDNOS (eating disorder not otherwise specified) and the yet-to-be-named body dysmorphic disorder. It’s important to clarify that I didn’t dislike food; in fact, I adored it. Some of my fondest memories are in a retro ’70s kitchen, playing on the dizzying linoleum floors with Barbie while my mom whipped up meals that seemed to make other kids green with envy—think Kraft Mac and Cheese and chicken salad in a Wizard of Oz thermos. I even recall her baking me a strawberry-frosted Barbie cake for my fifth birthday.
Yet, I often snuck food from that very kitchen. I’d munch on dry Stove Top stuffing right from the canister, hide in the pantry, and shove handfuls of dry cereal into my mouth. I’d gulp down packet after packet of instant oatmeal (fruit flavors were my fave, but maple and brown sugar were good enough in a pinch). I loved food, but looking back, I can see something was off.
By 15, I had nearly stopped eating, convinced that food was a superfluous indulgence that came with unwanted side effects—my butt, stomach, hips, and thighs were all expanding. At 5’1″ and weighing between 100 and 120 pounds, I was deemed “healthy” by medical standards, but I felt anything but. I couldn’t see normal, nor did I feel it.
It’s tough to describe the sensation of your body consuming itself. Everything aches: your muscles, bones, head. Your stomach grumbles and whines, making sure everyone knows it’s empty. You begin to resent those who eat, disgusted yet strangely drawn to the smells of greasy fries and fresh-baked bread. Your life becomes a cycle of numbers: calories in, calories out, steps taken, minutes exercised, and the countdown to the next meal. Soon, everything is reduced to figures and formulas. How many calories are in an apple? How many steps to burn them off? At my lowest, I resorted to eating jars of Gerber baby food and drinking only water and black coffee.
It wouldn’t be fair to pin all my body image issues on Barbie; that’s a heavy burden for her delicate frame. But the moment I got my first doll, I was enchanted; she was my world. Whenever I got ready, so did Barbie. Our lives intertwined, and since her adventures were birthed from my imagination, our minds merged. Her Dream House, Dream Car, and perfect life became my own. Yet, she possessed something I would never have: a flawless body. Perhaps that’s why I felt compelled to bury her that cold January day. I needed to bury the myth, the dreams, and my relentless pursuit of perfection. So, I gathered her dismembered heads, limbs, and outfits and gently placed them, one by one, into a black bag—giving them the most dignified farewell a Hefty Ultra Flex could offer.
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In summary, my relationship with Barbie was a complicated one, rooted in admiration and a quest for perfection that spiraled into an unhealthy obsession. While I loved food, my perception of it became twisted, leading me down a path of self-denial and body image issues. Ultimately, I realized the importance of confronting these unhealthy ideals and letting go of the unrealistic expectations they fostered.