On Big Dumb Cups and Fitting In
Photo by Nicholas Konrad / The New Yorker
‘No, Niamh. NO. Don’t do it.’ My finger hovers over the button. ‘Niamh, seriously, you can’t.’ I am this close to pressing it. ‘At least if you’re going to do it, get the one that says ‘girl dad’ on it.’
Do not worry, dear reader, you have not in fact interrupted me typing in any nuclear codes. No, in fact it is something far more serious: my best friend just had to talk me down from buying a Stanely cup.
Some of you may not know what a Stanley cup is. You are lucky. If this is you, I would recommend going away, watching the Saturday Night Live sketch ‘Big Dumb Cup’, and then coming back to me, otherwise it is going to sound like I am spouting nonsense. You’re back? Good, let’s get into it. Stanley cups are ridiculously expensive. I have multiple insulated water bottles that work, and I’m reliably hydrated (not to flex or anything). So why did I want a big dumb cup?
Well, as Chloe Fineman so bluntly states in the sketch, ‘you have a void in your life? Fill it with cup!’. I’ve just got a new job (again not to flex). Working at a school is meaningful and interesting and I end each day pleasantly exhausted, but I don’t know how to speak to my colleagues. I don’t think I have ever seen another adult in my classroom wear a pattern. I don’t think I’ve ever seen another adult in my classroom not wearing leggings. And here I am in paisley flares.
Two of the staff in my class have the same water bottle. Beige, insulated, straw. Sleek, minimalist, instagrammable. The only differentiating factor is that one has an initial written on it, and this is only to save on viral incidents. Mine is bright floral, silly and gorgeous and about as far from Nara Smith as you could get. I think perhaps this is the crux of my desire for Big Dumb Cup.
I have always been different. It’s ok, you don’t need to try and reassure me that I’m not. You can tell from the amount of people in my life who say ‘oh, Niamh’. The cock of their head, the gentle smile, the fond bemusement at whatever it is I’m doing. 99.9% of the time I am able to celebrate this. As an aspiring creative, I know that originality is prized in the arts, and I personally celebrate the unique quirks of my family and friends. These feelings don’t quite carry over when I’m the only one at school without a big dumb cup.
The only one at school. Working in education can’t help but harken back to my own school days. I was never bullied, but I sorely felt the fact that I didn’t have a Ted Baker pencil case, or know about EOS lip balm (yes I started secondary school in 2014). Maybe that is why I need a big dumb cup, the need of my inner eleven-year-old to be just like everybody else in the classroom. What I originally thought was desirability was something else this whole time: palatability.
I am very lucky to have brilliant friends who love me and know who I am, in all my wonderful strangeness. Who point out that the only Stanley I should buy is the one that has ‘girl dad’ engraved on it (possibly the dumbest of big dumb cups). Who remind me that I don’t need to fit in, that in fact I will find myself surrounded by the right people by doing the exact opposite. Maybe you want a Stanley cup? If that’s what you truly want, go for it! Maybe beige is your thing, and I love and support that for you. But I’m going to keep using my lovely floral bottle, and listening to what my heart says. I don’t need to be the same as everybody else, and I don’t need a big dumb cup. Just think, with the money I save I could buy a pair of lululemon leggings! Maybe it’s a good thing I’ve got my bestie on speed dial…
Niamh Duncan is an author, theatre maker and knitter living in Norwich, England. Having graduated from the University of East Anglia with a first-class degree in creative writing, she is now engaged in answering life’s big questions, namely how do you pay your rent with a degree in creative writing. In her spare time Niamh loves drinking tea and cocktails (usually not simultaneously) and going for long rambling walks.