By Briana Blum

Most eight-year-olds went through airport security without any trouble. I, on the other hand, was always pulled aside due to the suspicious bulging square in my Osh Kosh B’Gosh jean pocket. Security never found any bombs or objects posing a terrorist threat, just a pink plastic compact box with gold encrusted letters that said Polly Pocket.

Although the commercials claimed Polly and her house were small enough to fit in your pocket, it barely fit in mine and I started wondering whether I just needed bigger pockets. Although my jeans fit a little bit tighter, Polly was so worth it. Holding that magical Pepto-Bismol colored box in my hands gave me that little kid confidence, knowing I could never be bored again.

The Polly Pocket experience was challenging in every aspect. The first part of the experience was trying to open the tightly closed compact case. Apparently the makers at Mattel wanted to screw with little kids who were challenged in the area of hand coordination. I remember our peanut butter and jelly sandwiches were pushed to the side, untouched, as my friends and I would spend the entire lunch period, viciously trying to open our Polly Pocket cases. When I did get my case open I would sigh in victory and feel the intense burning anxiety fade away. For some reason I never remembered the method I used to open it, therefore the opening of the compact remained a permanent part of the Polly pocket experience.

I felt a rush of adrenaline every time I opened that miniature dollhouse and it was absolutely glorious. For some reason, Polly was always face down on the first floor like a clumsy drunk. The house consisted of two floors, one bedroom, one bath, a kitchen and living room. Polly’s crib was even somewhat handicap-friendly; there were random holes all around the house, where you could lock Polly’s feet into so she could stand on her own.

Being an overweight eight-year-old, playing with the actual Polly doll was actually an incredibly difficult task. This blond bombshell of a doll was nearly microscopic, thus, every time I picked her up she would suddenly disappear between my chubby fingers. Despite the many challenges I encountered playing with my bite-size friend, I continued my countless miniature-adventures with her for the next 2 years of my childhood. Every day after school, I’d run home, take off my Jellies, and as my older brother ran to get his bulky X-Men action figures, I’d reach into my pocket, pull out that wondrous pink box and share my Kudos bar with Ms. Polly. For hours I would sit on the living room floor with squinted eyes, barely able to see my half-inch friend. I’ve had my fair share of experience with different dolls, but Polly always remained a favorite; although, as Barbie watched from my toy bin she was probably thinking, you gotta be kidding me!