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"I don't want to hear it," Star said, as soon as I launched into my Ken story today. "He's not worth it."
Instead, she told me to sit down at her computer, and I did.
"Hold on," she said, then left.
Next I knew, she was pulling one of the dining room chairs into the bedroom. I stood up.
"Sit down," she said. "Sit down."
She placed the chair next to mine and sat down. Her hands stretched out to tap at the keyboard.
And then, we were on Match.
"Oh no," I said.
"Oh yes," she said.
"Barbara Nash" she typed into the name section, and then my e-mail address. "What nickname you want?" she asked.
I shook my head. "I don't want to do this," I said. "I'm not that desperate."
"What name?" she asked.
I sighed.
"Barbie Doll," she typed.
"No," I said.
"What do you want then?" she asked.
I dismissed her with a hand.
She shrugged, kept clicking and typing. I was Barbie Doll. I was thirty-three, Caucasian, thin, five-six, blue eyed. She paused at the hair, looked at me, an eyebrow raised. I didn't say anything. "Black," she finally selected.
"What are you here for?" she asked.
"I don't want to do this," I said. "People are going to see it."
"Just want to meet a nice guy," she typed, "who will treat me right. Helps if you know Greek."
"Greek?" I asked.
"You want to type this or not?" she asked.
I shook my head. I guess I was stuck with whatever Star decided.
Or maybe not.
When she got to the About Me section, what she had to say just wasn't going to work. I didn't want to the kind of pansy she was making me out to be. "Here," I said. "Let me do that."
I pulled up close the computer again, put my hands on the keyboard. It took awhile to think of what to say, but soon enough my self was going public. I wrote about my hair, my name, my car, all the things I'd obsessed over my whole life. The more I put into the computer, the less important those things seemed. Was this it? I kept asking myself. Was this all I was? I was barely more than the plastic caricature I'd always feared becoming. I was Barbie.
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