Guys and Dolls

A friend got me thinking the other day about favorite childhood toys. I loved anything you could build with: Lego, Lincoln Logs, Erector Sets (and the European version, Meccano). I'd build little working elevators with the latter.

But I was a hopeless girly-boy, and I also loved my dolls. They were all male, which is probably how my parents rationalized it. The first was Dapper Dan, which appealed to my already-evident OCD traits. Later came Steve Scout. He and Bob Scout would jump in their Jeep and go camping at a moment's notice. Be prepared ... for love.

Even my dad would buy me dolls if they were "butch." Like GI Joe and his posse of roughneck pals. All four had Kung Fu Grip. Hold on tight, men.

There was one doll that I'd completely forgotten about until this little reverie. Although it was male, it was in no way butch. Its name was Michel, and it was French. The most astonishing thing was that you could go to a boutique (if you were in Paris) and buy it custom-made clothes. Not the crude, chintzy clothes you usually see on dolls, but gorgeous, detailed little ensembles: button-down shirt, corduroy pants, wool coat. It was like shopping for a little person. A chic little person.

And that, I suppose, explains a great deal about me.