Why I Wept Over a Dented Yeti Rambler: A Fun Dive into the Economics of Everyday Meltdowns

Can economics truly explain my incessant wailing?

I not-so-recently had a massive meltdown, one that was brought back to mind just moments before I sat down to write this. So, what happened? Well, a few months ago, I dropped my emotional support Yeti Rambler. You know the one; I cannot function without. This bottle goes everywhere with me, like an unspoken partner in hydration. And so it accompanied me to the kitchen, where disaster struck.

It was one of those moments where you can see something happening in slow motion, like your hand heading for a door you’re about to slam shut, but you’re helpless to stop it. Within a flash, my beloved Yeti took a nosedive. I rushed to pick it up, praying for minimal damage, only to discover a massive dent at the bottom. To be fair, the bottle wasn’t rendered useless; it was just slightly wobbly. It still served its purpose… I guess.

But here’s the kicker: the tears. They came out of nowhere, full force, and before I knew it, I was sitting on the kitchen floor, sobbing for a solid 10 to 15 minutes. My very rightfully concerned sister had to literally drag me out of my puddle of despair, offering gentle reassurance, “It’s just a bottle.”

But it was just a bottle, wasn’t it? Then why the emotional outburst?

To give you a bit more context, I recently had a conversation with a friend and came to an interesting realisation: almost every economic theory (okay, maybe not every) can be applied to real life to explain why we behave the way we do. So naturally, I had to analyse my not-so-obvious reaction to the Yeti incident. It only seemed fitting. And so, I did. Here’s how it all played out.

So, I turned to an old reliable concept—diminishing marginal utility. It seemed like a fitting place to start. The theory says that the more you consume something, the less satisfaction you get from it over time. But here’s the twist: the utility of my Rambler didn’t fade gradually, it plummeted the moment that dent appeared. Every time I look at it now, I don’t see the spotless, shiny bottle I once loved. Instead, I see a wounded soldier, a reminder of what was lost, and that takes a serious toll on my happiness.

But as I thought more about it, this explanation felt like a bit of a long shot. It wasn’t really making sense; it wasn’t rational. After all, the bottle still functioned perfectly fine, so technically, the utility I derived from it shouldn’t have diminished. I mean, I was sad, sure, but the bottle was still doing its job.

Then I turned towards scarcity, When my Yeti got that dent, it wasn’t just about the damage. What made it even more special is that you can’t find Yeti bottles in India; my friend had to get it for me from the U.S. That scarcity added a layer of emotional value that I couldn't ignore.

In economic terms, scarcity increases demand. The fact that I couldn’t easily replace my Yeti intensified my attachment to it. So, while I was fully aware that the bottle still functioned just fine, the dent transformed it from a desirable object into a symbol of loss. Technically, I could easily ask my friend to get me another, but the funny thing is, I didn’t want another one. This bottle worked perfectly well; it held sentimental value that simply couldn’t be replaced.

So, is it really scarce then? The answer isn’t so straightforward. While I could replace it, the emotional attachment I have to this specific bottle makes it feel unique. It’s not just about the physical object; it’s about what it represents to me.

My meltdown maybe, suggested something deeper, maybe a clash between the cold, rational world of economic decision-making and the messy, emotional reality behavioural economics tries to capture.

So, I turned to my most neglected corner of economics—behavioural economics (maybe this is how I’ll finally master the concepts). And as it turns out, this is where the real answer lies.

I deep-dived into behavioural economics, I wouldn't actually say deep dived because I have barely scratched the surface but you get the point. I first turned to Loss aversion- to understand the economics of heartbreak. You know that sinking feeling you get when you lose something you love? Well, economists have a theory for that, called loss aversion. It turns out, that humans feel the pain of losing something twice as strongly as they feel the joy of gaining something. When my Yeti hit the floor, it wasn’t just a dent; it was a loss. And my brain, being the drama queen that it is, blew the emotional impact out of proportion. I wasn’t just upset; I was devastated because the emotional weight of a dented bottle far outweighed the joy I once felt when I received it in pristine condition

So this explains the over-the-top wailing but it doesn’t account for the fact that the bottle is replaceable. Ah, the endowment effect, the psychological quirk where we value things more simply because they belong to us. Sure, I could buy another water bottle, but it wouldn’t be “my" water bottle. This bottle had been with me through thick and thin (okay, mostly just water, but you get the point). The dent wasn’t just a mark on the bottle; it was a mark on my possession, something I had assigned far more value to than its retail price.

The ironic part is that, theoretically, I should have been able to assess the situation calmly. The bottle still works, it's functional, and maybe the dent even gives it some “character.” But as behavioural economics shows, humans aren’t always rational. My meltdown wasn’t about the bottle itself; it was about the feeling of loss, the perception of value, and my brain's resistance to accepting imperfection.

Ultimately, this story goes beyond economic theories; it highlights the very human experience of attachment and loss. Yes, economics can explain why I cried over a dented water bottle, but it doesn’t fully capture the deep, irrational affection we develop for the things that become part of our lives. Instead of weighing replacement costs or seeking solutions, the emotional impact of the loss took centre stage, illustrating how human emotions often override pure economic logic.