Late into fall quarter my entrepreneurial strategy team was tasked with conducting some mild research on Birchbox, the send-you-free-samples-for-$10-a-month cosmetic company. Although this company can furnish classy, gentleman-colored boxes of a viridian hue, the bulk of their wares are shipped in a Mexican pink enclosure much more amenable to gender-stereotyped shades of the lady consumer. A tragic byproduct of this “research” I conducted is that a seemingly omnipresent glare of the Birchbox magenta stalks me from page to page, whether I am looking up guitar tablature or checking out Facebook. What has struck me most about this is the stubborn longevity of their targeted advertising. I really thought (and hoped) that, by now, this cookie-guided box ad could be packed up and shipped to some other corner of the web. Instead, I keep asking myself if I want to ‘fall in love with the best in beauty’. Fortunately their efforts have failed to curtail my aversion to their product, but how long can I hold out? Falling in love can be so rewarding! The thrill of it all! The excitement! It can also, however, leave you with unwanted eyeliner, mascara, and associated sundries cluttering your bathroom countertop and an empty sense of feeling used.
As a subscriber to The Economist, I will from time to time post interesting articles on my Facebook wall, copying the URL from the online version of the publication. Today, I was pleased to see that a song lyric site I visited bore the welcome catchy white text of my favorite news periodical. Seeing as how their advertising already succeeded in roping me in, their advertisements only reinforce my appreciation for their pithy, witty articles punctuated with epenthetic ‘u’s and other archaic Britishisms. This ad in question even helps trump up myself esteem, allowing me to identify myself with the sultry erudition of The Economist. By Jove, it’s a cheeky one, it is!
Lastly, for several months I contemplated making one of the largest retail expenditures of my life: a pair of Wolverine 1000 Mile Boots. Being the son of my father – through no fault of my own, mind you – I am prone to the Knackstedt proclivity of researching, studying, and open-mindedly reading every review of a product imaginable and, upon more consideration, devoting near-equal commitment toward price comparisons before any notion of a purchase is executed. As such, I have wanted a pair of this objectively sublime footwear for over two years. Longing indeed makes the heart grow fonder, but the equally stylish ads have, with some sly regularity, popped up on various websites I have perused and engendered an even deeper yearning. Here, though, I can say that their algorithmic persistence paid off and that this story – and blog post – are wrapped up with a happy ending of me purchasing the shoes three weeks ago. There is now a noticeable spring in my step (although that could be complementary from my now much-lighter wallet, too).