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Barbie turned 45 this year. She's the only woman in the world who has gotten younger as she's gotten older. She is also, as far as I know, the only woman in the world who can buy a purse and a friend to match every outfit, can exercise without breaking a sweat, and looks hot in Mattel pink. I hate her.

I should have been built like Barbie-a waist the size of my ankle and a bust the size of Manhattan. I should have had Jhirmack, bounce-back, beautiful hair, and eyelashes that don't need sixteen coats of mascara to make their debut. I should have been tall. I should have had natural grace and an inward glow. I should have been beautiful.

But I am not beautiful. I have perspiration glands under my arms that have been permanently set on "steam," and eyebrows that, left unchecked, would provide shelter for several medium-sized mammals-my sister calls them "monster brows."

I once went to a fashion workshop where they likened our body figures to vegetables and fruits-it was supposed to help us "dress our figures." I was one of two gourds. The other gourd was eight-and-a-half months pregnant. With twins.

At first, I tried to salve my jealousy of Barbie's physical advantages by telling myself that Barbie has personality flaws-that she is snobbish and dull, and has difficulty making friends. But I've seen her with her Crest smile, surrounded by all her little plastic friends (forgive me if I sound bitter), and I know I'm just deluding myself. Perhaps if she had a bad hair day every so often, or got runs in her stockings, or ran out of the house with the label waving out the back of her shirt once in a while, I might have an easier time accepting her. Perhaps if she were not so doggone extraordinary.

I am not extraordinary. I can't sculpt Ronald Reagan's head from a lump of mashed potatoes or capture Mona Lisa's smile in a dried-bean mosaic. I can't play the pan flute or the glockenspiel. I can't hold my breath under water for two minutes and forty-five seconds or floss my teeth with one hand. I can't get my cat to use her litter box for its intended purpose.

I am not graceful, either. I have been known, while trying to wield a knife and fork, to catapult an entire steak across the table and onto my sister's white shirt-steak sauce attached. I have been known to run my tricycle into the only tree in the backyard. I have stubbed my toe on the same corner of the upstairs hallway in my parent's house since the day we moved in. I have been known to transport a length of toilet

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