A Brief History of Modern Product Worship
Looking for God in a Stanley Cup
As a nervous, perspiring middle school student, few suburban places offered as much excitement and opportunity as the idyllic wonderland that was my local mall. It was a beacon of independence, a haven of sorts. My friends and I flocked there on Saturday mornings, buzzing with nerves about who from school we might run into and eager to gape at the makeup products and garments our favorite YouTubers touted on their profiles.
I remember splitting the stores at my local mall into two rough categories: the places I belonged and the places I didn’t. Which category each store belonged to was, of course, entirely up to my discretion. The former faction contained stores that felt generally approachable, casting a wide net of average customers and browsers. These storefronts had a humbleness about them, I could wander in and not feel the need to contract into my self-conscious, juvenile shell instantly. The open, quirky spirit of Fuego, ambiguous youthfulness of Aeropostle, and nonoffensive deliciousness of Auntie Anne’s Pretzels fit this definition. As did, surprisingly, the family-friendly Apple store, where kids could float in and out to charge their iPod Touches and play Angry Birds. I was also a frequenter of Bath & Body Works where all are welcome to sample hand lotions and sniff candles.
The latter category contained places I was terrified to set foot in for various reasons. I felt too immature to browse Victoria’s Secret and too ugly to cross the threshold of Sephora. But there was one store whose pearly gates felt especially impervious: Forever 21. It was 2011 and Forever 21 possessed an untouchable level of prestige. The store’s yellow, plastic shopping bags with big block letters furnished the thumbnail of every haul video in my YouTube subscriptions. Forever 21 was for high schoolers, for twenty-one-year-olds, it was probably where the girlfriends of One Direction members shopped. It blared Top 40 songs, contained racks upon racks of colorful, on-trend clothing, and had lighting so fluorescent you felt like a bug being examined under a microscope. Everyone who worked and shopped there was beautiful and cool. It was not a place I belonged.
I attempted to stride into the store one day while my mom browsed Ann Taylor. My head stayed tucked down, but when I glanced up, I was faced with a fleet of teenagers - all of whom looked like the popular girls at their respective schools. None of them regarded me - I couldn’t tell if that was a good or bad sign. Either way, realizing my middle school self would stick out like a sore thumb, I diverted my gait. It was as if an invisible force field was safeguarding the store’s entrance, like the front door and I were the same poles on a magnet. One day I’ll walk in there, I thought. Just not today.
When I did eventually walk into Forever 21, just a year later, I soon became aware that there was no force field. I really could just walk in. The cultural cachet of Forever 21 could be mine - I could be a part of it. I exchanged the crumpled five-dollar bill in my pocket for something small - a pair of socks, a barrette - and paraded around the mall with my yellow plastic shopping bag like it was a trophy, or better yet, a club badge. Look at me world! I am a teenager, I am online, I know what’s popular. I am a part of it.
The weighty preteen prestige that Forever 21 possessed fizzled with time. Internet vloggers began touting new brands. Fresh shopping bags and logos filled their video thumbnails and Tumblr flatlays. Soon, more subtly cool stores like Urban Outfitters and American Apparel became the places to shop. I remember dragging my mom to the only American Apparel in Seattle just so I could clamor over the knee-high socks. My mom would assert that they’re just knee-high socks. “Not just any knee-high socks, American Apparel knee-high socks,” I would retort.
When the public forms an obsession with a new brand, product, or style of sock, there’s a reason they call it a “cult-like following.” I think many people are drawn to the idea of devotion, as a way to give themselves a larger sense of direction, community, and life meaning. People consciously and unconsciously search for their “devotion” in different places, many of which are quite intense. Those closely involved with organized religion become devoted to serving a higher power and purpose. People in serious romantic relationships become inexplicably devoted to their partner, compelling them to say and do things that they may not otherwise. In a highly materialistic modern world, it’s not too far-fetched to think people can devote themselves to a company. That they can proverbially look for God in a Stanley Cup (no, not the hockey trophy).
Lately, a large portion of the internet has developed an obsession with insulated drink tumblers from the brand Stanley. An equally large portion has developed an obsession with discussing this obsession. Many are dumbfounded by how many people could devote this much of their time to a water vessel. Just like how the American Apparel knee highs weren’t any old socks, the Stanley isn’t just any old cup - it’s a Stanley Cup - capital S and capital C.
The largest and most popular tumbler size is the 40 oz “Quencher,” and it retails for $45. The tumblers come in many different colorways and people on TikTok are keen to collect and display them for their followers. There are numerous trinkets and accessories one can buy on Amazon and Etsy for their Stanleys, including eccentric staw toppers, carriers, and snack trays that fasten on the lid. People camped outside of Target for the limited edition “Galentine’s Day” Stanley drop last month. The 40 oz Holiday 2023 Starbucks x Stanley tumbler is currently going for $240 on the retail resale site StockX.
As I mentioned, many are aghast by this enthusiasm for water jugs. And it feels funny to say that I’m not all that surprised. Because it’s not entirely about the water jug. The Stanley obsession isn’t so dissimilar from the other material-centric infatuations people possess in modern society. The root cause of these devotions is less about the material item itself, and more about the group one becomes a part of post-transaction.
“Disney Adults” unabashedly carry Disneyland season passes, horde Disney-related merchandise, and “Disney bound” or cosplay when making park visits. While the identity requires a significant amount of material investment, the pay-off isn’t just the items one purchases. It’s also the larger “family” one enters after the transaction, the feeling of being a part of something bigger, and more magical than your singular self. It’s not so dissimilar from the sparkly, pastel, lip gloss-clad Tumblr world of teenagehood that I symbolically entered upon making my first Forever 21 purchase. The items we carry are mere tokens, representing the larger identity we share with others. The corporations are the token-holders, but the gates are flung open - all it takes is your money.
Screen addiction and remote work are undoubtedly amplifying the experience of alienation that so many modern people face. We aren’t incentivized to become as intertwined with our communities as past generations were. Laying down sturdy roots means staying stagnant. Products and services are touted for their ephemeral, practical nature - pre-chopped and tossed salads to-go, a book brought to your door in two days. There are fewer times and places for modern people to linger and play. So much of our lives - what we eat, where we get our money, how we receive healthcare - is dependent on the looming hand of a corporation. When we turn to sources to develop our identities, it’s unsurprising that we would turn to for-profit companies and their commodities - where else would we look? It’s the air we breathe - products are our pastimes. Seeing the circumstance manifest itself in a community of adults obsessed with collecting reusable water vessels just paints it out plainly.
The act of collecting has its many comforting perks. It’s affirming to surround and adorn yourself with materials - garments, furniture, art, and trinkets - that speak to your personality and values. Tiny encapsulations of your current and past selves, epitomized by objects on bookshelves, on your feet, and on digital grids for all to take in. It’s also validating to feel like a part of something bigger than ourselves - it’s one of the key ingredients to living a personally satisfying life. Partaking in the product worship of the moment is one of the most obvious and immediate ways to experience either phenomenon under our current conditions.
But, of course, the product worth worshipping is always rotating. Trend cycles accelerate and even when they remain somewhat static, one purchase is rarely enough to grant the kind of unadulterated bliss that we’re seeking. Before we know it, we’re stuffing our closets and drawers with new objects on the pretext of reinvention. We’re purchasing copious reusable water vessels in the newest colorways that better speak to our sense of self than the last dozen. In actuality, one - maybe two - would be sufficient.
Not only does mainstream product and brand worship accelerate overconsumption, but it also erodes our sense of personal taste. Entering the “Stanley sisterhood” is as smooth as a credit card swipe. We needn’t be discerning about whether we would purchase a Stanley Cup or pair of American Apparel knee-high socks on our own accord because it’s clear that the product is viable - devotion-worthy even - by how frequently it appears on our feeds. Little thought or judgment is required. Rather than develop a unique sense of style, you’re able to adopt the taste of the masses, absorbing yourself in the ever-rotating amoeba of direct-to-consumer knick-knacks, sheets, and athleisure. It’s quite comforting to be told what you like and even more compelling to find a throng of people who like it just as much.
The practice of “curation” is a lost art. Not in regards to arranging one’s Instagram grid, but in regards to the level of discernment needed to develop an individual cultural palate. Overwhelmed by the large amount of short-form content peddled by algorithms and clamoring for connection amid an alienated world, it’s easy to grip onto the looming corporate hand that’s always reaching, making a hollow promise of transcendence and community via products and services. Of course, sometimes we do truly like what’s popular. But more true feelings of pleasure are reaped when we lean into the modes that genuinely ignite something in us. Perhaps a more pure sense of connection can be experienced by taking your friend’s book, sock, or water jug recommendation than by jumping to the one most embedded in your TikTok feed.
Products and companies will never be able to replace genuine purpose and community. Devoting ourselves to those things won’t bring us any closer to enlightenment - no purchase will. Beginning to subconsciously accept this starts with disentangling ourselves from platforms that profit off our purchases and instead more mindfully paying attention to what truly sparks joy internally and among the people we admire. Only then will we find that the in-groups we so badly sought access to - as teenagers and as adults - aren’t all that desirable after all.
Parts of this article were inspired by this great podcast episode from The Ezra Klein Show that my friend/fellow writer shared with me. I highly recommend checking it out for more.
I would have quoted the whole thing in a restack if I could!! I really admire the empathy you always bring to your writing that brings out the “why” at the heart of any conversation!
I also felt like a threshold had been crossed the first time I entered a Forever 21. I rarely got to buy stuff from the mall as is—I was raised in a Walmart and secondhand household lol—so the first time I bought something from there, it also felt like entering a different world from a financial point of view. I think this definitely plays a part in this cultural brand obsession, finally being able to afford the things everyone else is buying and getting to be part of that community.