Ball's-out Barbie.

If you're a loser like me who follows these things, you will no doubt be aware that there are more single women over thirty in the world than there are men.  According to one statistic, unattached Aussie women outnumber the guys nine to one.  Unfortunately, there isn't much we can do about that, without the aid of Chris Hemsworth, a time machine, state-of-the-art cloning technology and chloroform, but I think I do have a suggestion to help combat the depression that often occurs as a result of this discrepancy. 

Ladies, cast your minds back to your childhood, a time when nothing seemed impossible, thanks to one elegant, sophisticated, flaxen-haired woman. 

BARBIE. 

She has been a fashion designer, a doctor, a teacher, a veterinarian, a plastic surgeon (I kid you not, it was in 1973 - look it up), an army officer, an air force pilot, a marine, a policewoman, a fire fighter, a rock star, a scuba diver, the ambassador for world peace and even President of the United States, just to name a few.  What's more, she still managed to get married, and ride horses in her spare time, and those perfect, rock-hard bazooms always pointed dead ahead.  Barbie wasn't just a toy; she was an aspirational figure.  She was a beacon for shy, oppressed little girls everywhere who looked at their two pack a day, serapax-gobbling Mum's and thought: That won't be me.  I'm going to be just like Barbie.  Sweet, I grant you, but realistic?

Hell no!

Pure and untainted by the lure of monetary gain as I'm sure Barbie's employment counsellors at Mattel were, they clearly dropped the ball when it came to preparing her little disciples for the harsh realities they would later face.  Sadly, I was one of those disciples, and if I had the multi-tasking-maven herself here now, I would take her to task. 

Where is my dream house?  Where is my non-threatening, ever-present, perpetually-happy husband?  Just how many tiny Ford Pills do you have to chug every day to maintain that girlish figure?  If you truly want to enlighten and inspire your young fans, I suggest you give yourself a make-under.  Force down a plastic roast chicken or three, tell us the true nature of your relationship with Ken, seeing as there obviously can't be much going on after dark, given his little anatomical problem and love of fashion.  Show future generations of women the realities of post-war society and release a new line of likenesses.  Prozac Barbie; Over Twenty-Eights-Night Barbie; Blind Date Barbie (complete with pink bucket and mace); and Settle-For-Less Barbie are some that spring to mind.  Dreaming's fine, but little girls need to learn how to cope should they get past thirty and find themselves riding the bus alone as their friends rocket past in their hot pink convertibles with male model or muscular army lieutenant husbands arms draped over their shoulders. 

Barbie, Mattell, I urge you to address this appallingly neglected niche before it's too late, and another generation of women live out the rest of their lives in small rooms surrounded on all sides by baby pink satin padding.