REI
Not being much of an outdoorsy or sporty type, I had never actually set foot in an REI store until just a few days ago. My boyfriend claimed to need special socks for his abnormally large feet, so I tagged along. I wasn’t even really sure of what they sold, besides a vague inkling that it involved sporting goods of some sort. I thought maybe their shelves were stocked with golf clubs, tennis rackets, or any of the other paraphernalia required to participate in those kinds of annoying, yet mostly harmless, amusements. I had so much to learn.
It started off simply enough. When I walked through the door, the store didn’t look that strange. Up front were the usual camping supplies — knives, freeze-dried meals, tents, etc. Their current marketing campaign titled “Make Home” seemed pretty normal, if not a little forced. But once I passed a display of coolers, some of which cost more than a month’s rent in my first apartment, I started to sense that something might be different about this store. Isn’t camping supposed to be “roughing it”? Who would actually purchase one of these ridiculously overpriced coolers? It wasn’t until I almost wandered into a classroom-style demonstration on various new and improved methods of inflating bicycle tires that I came to the realization that this store was basically a cult.
Maybe not a full-blown cult, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was definitely something cult-ish about the place. I discovered that there was, indeed, some truth to this hunch later when I reached the checkout. The perky, canvas-vested “customer service specialist” asked us if we’d like to join their “co-op” and “share in the company’s profits.” I thought to myself, “What kind of new-agey marketing ploy was this?” What he hell is a “co-op” anyway? It’s 2016 and I can still honestly say that I have only the vaguest notion of how co-ops work. Retail stores are in the business of making money off of their customers, and one should worry if a lowly salesperson offers to “share the profits” with you. Sounds like the pitch for a cult to me.
After mere minutes in the store I came to the conclusion that REI is basically a Bass Pro Shop for rich, suburban liberals. The store seemed to be populated by a variety of different kinds of people. Looking around at the customers, I could just imagine hearing comments like, “Whoah, nice barefoot running shoes, bro,” or “Hey man, could you help me carry this to my car? It’s the Subaru Outback with the paddle board rack.” I couldn’t be 100% sure why each person was in that store or what they could truly need from there, but I managed to identify three main types of people who I think are most likely to shop at REI on a regular basis.
First, and most obviously, there’s the person with too much time and money on their hands who needs a hobby, but it has to be an expensive hobby that they can brag about. These are also the kinds of people who run 5Ks, mostly for the same reasons. Have you ever noticed how 5Ks are never held on running tracks, which are specifically designed for running? No, they always have to shut down major thoroughfares for them, because what’s the point of running a 5K if you can’t advertise it to the entire world? And where is such a person supposed to purchase all of the copious amounts of totally necessary gear to perform what is essentially a basic human motor skill? REI, of course.
The second type of person is the one who doesn’t actually spend that much time outdoors, but wants everyone to know that they like to enjoy it “when they can get away.” These are the kinds of people who wear Patagonia and North Face to their desk jobs and keep a bicycle rack on their cars year-round, even in the dead of winter, when we all know damn well that that rack hasn’t been used in months (if ever). When these people actually do manage to make it out into the woods for a weekend, they are usually reluctant to wash the the mud off of their Subarus for several weeks after they return.
The third type I identified is the person who lived in Colorado, California, or the Pacific Northwest for a little while and who always wants to make sure you don’t forget that. These are the kinds of people who are always telling you, “Yeah, man, back in Colorado we had this beautiful mountain/river/cave that’s way cooler than anything around here,” or, “Going for a hike, a kayak, and then a hang glide was just a typical Tuesday for me.” One always gets the vague feeling that these people are, in fact, full of shit and have done each of those things approximately once in their entire lives (if we’re being charitable).
So what were these people in REI to buy anyway? Presumably a $400 cooler to store all of their rad craft IPAs. Or maybe special shoes for city cycling because, you know, regular tennis shoes are for plebs, even if you’re just biking down the street to the coffee shop for a quick pour-over. And if you’re going to go out for a hike, you’ll definitely need to pick up a backpack for your dog (yes, a backpack for dogs). You wouldn’t want to take up valuable space in your own pretentiously-priced backpack for your companion’s artisanal dog food, would you? No, you need that space for your dehydrated Pad Thai, of course.
When we finally got around to leaving the store, what started as a harmless shopping trip left me emotionally drained, feeling like I had just escaped from a bizarre circle-jerk with pseudo-religious overtones, each congregant more eager than the last to demonstrate how committed they are to an “active lifestyle.” What has our society become when people feel compelled to keep up with the Joneses even on a simple trip to the woods? Aren’t camping trips supposed to be “back to the basics,” a special time for stripping down all of the distractions of modern life and just being? As I pondered this disturbing development, I knew one thing for certain: Boyfriend would be buying his socks online from now on.
