Introducing Type 1 Diabetes Barbie*

*Not even satire, I swear

Somewhere in a shiny pink boardroom, a group of very serious adults at Mattel gathered recently to discuss how they could “ensure more kids see themselves in the dolls they love.” A noble goal, perhaps. But considering Barbie has spent the past six decades with the waistline of a juice box straw and the job history of a delusional LinkedIn influencer (coming soon: “Brand Synergy Strategist Barbie!”), it’s an odd pivot.

Nevertheless, this week, Mattel launched Type 1 Diabetes Barbie—and I genuinely am not making this up—who comes complete with an insulin pump, a Continuous Glucose Monitor (CGM), pink heart-shaped medical tape to secure it, a phone that displays a handy CGM tracking app, and a purse (“perfect for Barbie to carry any essentials, such as type 1 diabetes supplies or snacks, when she’s on the go”).

From the official press release:

“Introducing a Barbie doll with type 1 diabetes marks an important step in our commitment to inclusivity and representation,” said Krista Berger, Senior Vice President of Barbie and Global Head of Dolls. “Barbie helps shape children’s early perceptions of the world, and by reflecting medical conditions like T1D, we ensure more kids can see themselves in the stories they imagine and the dolls they love.”

Let’s be clear: these are grown-ass women molded into 11.5-inch figurines with permanently arched feet, perfect blowouts, flawless skin, and an unsettling absence of body hair (not to mention genitals). “Representation” has never exactly been a strong suit in the Barbieverse. And yet now, the same company that once gave us Palm Beach Sugar Daddy Ken (*I also am not making that up) is very concerned that little girls feel seen.

I didn’t realize we were all struggling with the emotional burden of not being adequately represented in our doll collections. Could this be why I have an obsessive need to twist my pantry cans so that all of the labels face the same way and color-code my closet and my bookshelves? No one made a Braces and Bad Perm Barbie when I was a kid. There was no Crippling Anxiety Barbie with her Xanax clutch and permanent pit stains. Not a single Lunch Table Outcast Barbie who came with a bologna sandwich and a “KICK ME” sign taped to her back. (P.S. To be fair, in 1965 Mattel did release Slumber Party Barbie, who came with a scale stuck at 110 and a book titled How to Lose Weight whose entire advice was “Don’t eat!”)

But sure. Now we need ADHD Barbie, My Parents Won’t Even Buy Me a Stanley Barbie, and Overachiever Who Cries in the Bathroom Barbie. (Actually, that one might already exist. She’s just called Barbie.)

This was meant to be a joke… but come on. How far off is it really?

When Barbara Millicent Roberts was introduced in 1959, she looked like a pin-up girl in a strapless swimsuit with bad bangs and a perpetual side-eye. (The fact that anyone thought little girls would want to play with dolls that looked like the ladies who modeled underwear in the Sears catalog boggles my mind to this day; I’d have definitely lost that bet.) And somehow that was less ridiculous than where we’ve landed today. Now, to be “inclusive,” Mattel is marketing dolls that come with miniature insulin pumps and a 24/7 biometric tracker that probably reports to the school nurse and the local CDC branch.

I’m not mocking people with health conditions. But when your idea of representation is to inject children’s toys with prescription-grade drama, maybe the pendulum has swung a tad too far. I don’t need Barbie to tell me how to feel about me. That’s what therapy is for.

The very best part is how Mattel is trying to spin their top doll’s latest iteration.

“We want to ensure more kids can see themselves in the dolls they love.”

Oh. Do you? Were kids really sitting there in 2024, tearfully clutching Barbie’s thigh gap and whispering, “Why doesn’t she have a CGM like me?”

If you ever wondered what Barbie looks like without makeup.

I grew up knowing full well that Barbie didn’t represent me. That was kind of the point. She was a fantasy. A walking, talking Pinterest board of impossible standards and plastic dreams. Nobody expected realism from a doll who drove a pink convertible, had her own magical urinating unicorn (“Feed her water and watch her pee rainbows!” the commercial promised) and was physically incapable of wearing sensible shoes.

You want relatable? Try Student Loan Barbie, whose credit score is 412 and who cries when her oat milk goes bad before payday. Give me Downloaded Duolingo and Used It Twice Barbie or Perpetually-Hot Perimenopausal Barbie who comes with a fan necklace and a box of Chardonnay. Or how about Too-Tired-to-Go-Out Barbie who purposely picks a fight with Ken so she can stay home and binge Love Island in her bathrobe. I’d buy Forgot What She Walked In Here For Barbie for myself and everyone I know. (Possibly twice, because I’d probably forget the first purchase.)

Down to the litter box… so accurate.

Maybe I’ll start a doll company of my own. I think my very first model will have to be Conspiracy Theory Karen, who spends her days crafting tiny tinfoil hats for her cats, stockpiling canned goods for the apocalypse, and trying to convince the world that Diabetes Barbie is nothing more than a corporate ploy to normalize wearable tech.

As always, tell me how you voted and why in the comments. :)

P.S. My actual closet/bookshelves. *Adds OCD Karen to future doll collection lineup.