When Shopping Becomes Identity: A Teen's Toxic Love Story

Former Nickelodeon star Jennette McCurdy poses an uncomfortable question: In a world addicted to consumption, can we still distinguish real desire from manufactured want?

Her new novel Half His Age follows Waldo, an Alaskan high schooler who begins an inappropriate relationship with her middle-aged creative writing teacher. But reading this as a simple "age-gap romance" misses the point entirely. McCurdy is far more interested in late capitalism than Lolita.

A World Poisoned by Plastic

Waldo's existence is toxic from page one. Microwaved meals from her disinterested mother, fast-fashion crop tops with cancer warnings, a laptop whose "unnatural heat sears her ovaries" at 2 a.m. She's already imprinted as "a caustic force of anti-nature" before she even meets Mr. Korgy.

This isn't accidental. McCurdy, who survived childhood exploitation in the entertainment industry, understands how consumer culture flattens young people into objects. Her previous memoir I'm Glad My Mom Died detailed ritualized anorexia at 11 years old and sleeping on Costco mats because her hoarder mother filled every bedroom with purchased objects.

Brand Names as Identity Markers

Waldo rattles off cosmetic brands the same way Mr. Korgy lists his favorite directors ("Bergman and Kubrick and Kurosawa")—as identity markers, even if homogenous ones. She works at Victoria's Secret, eats breakfast at Denny's, survives on Auntie Anne's pretzels and Sour Patch Kids. When they have sex in his car, Cheerios crumbs grinding into her knees become part of the experience.

Brands aren't just present in Waldo's life—they're "as extant as air." Her Alaska isn't a specific place but a collection of generic chain stores that could exist anywhere in America.

The Corruption of Desire Itself

McCurdy's sharp commentary echoes Don DeLillo's White Noise, with its hyperreal supermarket produce "sprayed, burnished, bright." As critic Cynthia Deitering noted about DeLillo's work, humanity underwent a profound 20th-century transformation: "a shift from a culture defined by its production to a culture defined by its waste."

But where DeLillo saw death lurking behind artificial abundance, McCurdy sees corrupted desire. How can Waldo know what she really wants when her "synapses are distorted by the dopamine thrill of acquisition"? Online shopping isn't just compulsion—it's "an assertion of her existence."

What draws her to Mr. Korgy is his apparent life outside her "dull, trashy monoculture." Yet his Crate & Barrel throw pillows are no more authentic than her mom's Target doormat or her rich friend's Le Labo candles. When Korgy Amazon-ships her "chocolate paleo crunch granola," she manages three bites before throwing it away.

The American Consumer Trap

For American readers, Waldo's world hits uncomfortably close to home. The $4.9 trillion U.S. retail market, TikTok shopping hauls, Amazon Prime's dopamine delivery system. We've normalized purchasing identity, buying personality, consuming our way to selfhood.

The novel's temporal ambiguity is telling. Waldo mentions Instagram and TikTok but doesn't scroll. She obsesses over appearance but doesn't post selfies. She exists in a consumer purgatory where acquisition replaces authentic experience.

This resonates particularly in post-pandemic America, where online shopping surged 32% and many discovered how hollow retail therapy really feels. McCurdy asks whether transcendent communion with the real world remains possible when everything—including relationships—becomes commodified.

Beyond the Scandal

While the student-teacher relationship provides narrative tension, it's not really about abuse or exploitation. Waldo is "bracingly aware" when Korgy manipulates her emotionally and "far too astute" to fall for his cultural superiority act. She seduces him as much as he corrupts her.

The real scandal is civilizational: a culture that's "squandering its dreams and desires on the crack high of cheap stuff." When teenagers can only assert existence through consumption, when adults mistake Crate & Barrel for authenticity, when brands become more real than nature—what kind of relationships are possible?