Amy Goldman Koss: My own personal Barbie

What sets this week apart from all others, of course, is that Barbie turns 50. And what a life she has lived.

She has held successful careers as a pilot, pediatrician, flight attendant, astronaut, veterinarian, lifeguard, firefighter, cowgirl, teacher and, most important, teenage fashion model. She has appeared in many books and videos and controversies. Andy Warhol painted her portrait.

And whereas most of us would fetch much less on the open market than we used to, an original Barbie, which sold for $3 back in 1959, now commands as much as 8,000 bucks. Mattel says that three Barbies are sold every second and that more than 1 billion have been sold in more than 150 countries since her introduction.

But they're talking about a product. Not about the Barbie I knew and loved.

I was 5 when she entered my consciousness via commercials during the "Mickey Mouse Club." My instant longing for her is the closest I've come to feeling a spiritual connection: Suddenly and desperately, I wanted a Barbie of my own -- and to be a teenager when I grew up.

And 50 years later, if given the choice, I'd still like to be a teenager when I grow up.

There were three types of girls in Detroit, where I grew up.

Second came those who longed for Easy-Bake Ovens, Betsy Wetsies (a baby doll that peed), Chatty Cathies (that talked) or Ginny dolls, whose figures were as boring and flat-chested as our own. I suspect these girls saw themselves growing all the way up and getting married and having babies, like their moms.

The third group, my group, was grossed out by babies and dreaded the prospect of motherhood and ovens and houses and cars and all things that put the "dull" in adult. We found our goddess in Barbie because she was about having fun, and she was pretty and had evening gowns (as did no one we knew in real life).

My best friend, Roberta, got her Barbie first. Hers was the classic -- a breathtakingly beautiful, blond, pony-tailed Barbie. We lived in a neighborhood that was entirely Jewish and black, where there wasn't a blond to be seen. So of course the exotic, blond, obviously Gentile Barbie was utter perfection -- as anyone but my mom understood.

My mother preferred short hair. Hers was a tidy, brown helmet. And as long as I was under her control, my own brown hair was vigorously maintained in a home-cut pixie. So I shouldn't have been surprised when, after three years of near-constant begging, the Barbie I finally got was the 1962 dark-haired doll with the (short, neat, crisp) bubble cut. The Jewish-looking one.

Needless to say, I was devastated.

Those were difficult times, emotionally. I wrestled with issues of unconditional vs. conditional love, of guilt versus anger. I believe that was when I learned to sigh.

My daughter and her friends grew up with heaps of Barbies, which they often left naked and abandoned with dust bunnies under the bed, their heads twisted impossibly, arms and legs in agonizing positions. But back in my day, you had your Barbie; she was sacred; you loved her.

So, while Roberta's Barbie tossed her silky blond ponytail and stood propped against the wall wearing two shoes, mine toppled with her empty pant leg flapping. There were no Barbie wheelchairs, or crutches, or prosthetics.

Nonetheless, we spent countless magnificent hours playing pretend, my Barbie and I. She was always game and uncomplaining, willing to have a go at even the most perilous or romantic plans.

She was my beautiful, beloved, short-haired, one-footed Barbie, and I only wish she were here with me now to help blow out her 50 candles.