Kendall Jenner’s latest venture? A tequila brand, naturally. But that’s old news. What’s really got the internet buzzing, and my eyebrow arched with a healthy dose of cynicism, is her foray into the world of…wait for it…branded workout equipment. Yes, you read that right. The supermodel, whose access to the world’s best trainers and nutritionists is a given, wants to sell you the tools for a body like hers.
Let’s be clear, the wellness industrial complex is nothing new. Gwyneth’s been peddling jade eggs and overpriced smoothies for years now. But there’s something particularly pointed, particularly egregious, about Kendall’s foray into this arena. It’s the casual conflation of wealth and well-being, the unspoken suggestion that a $1,500 reformer Pilates machine is the missing link between you and her impossibly toned physique.
I remember once, years ago, bumping into Donatella Versace at a spa in Tuscany. We were both there for a fashion shoot, both looking a little worse for wear after weeks of runway shows and late-night fittings. She saw me eyeing the elaborate spread of herbal teas and chuckled, her voice raspy from too many cigarettes. “Darling,” she said, “beauty is pain, but it’s also very, very expensive.”
Donatella, in her own way, was being honest. She wasn’t trying to sell me a lifestyle, a quick fix. She was acknowledging the inherent privilege in her version of beauty, a version built on couture gowns and a team of professionals dedicated to maintaining her image.
Kendall’s brand of wellness feels different. It’s aspirational, but in a way that feels disingenuous. It’s the carefully curated Instagram post of her sun-drenched Pilates studio, the caption urging her followers to “join the movement.” What she fails to mention is that for most, access to that movement is a luxury, not a given.
And then there’s the product itself. A Pilates machine. An inherently exclusive form of exercise, often requiring private or small group classes that can cost upwards of $50 a pop. It’s a world away from the realities of most people’s lives, where gym memberships are a considered expense and finding the time to work out is a luxury in itself.
Look, I’m all for people taking care of themselves, for finding joy and strength in movement. But let’s call this what it is: corporeal capitalism at its finest. It’s the commodification of health and wellness, packaged and sold by those who have never had to worry about the cost of a gym membership or a green juice.
Kendall’s not the first to do it, and she certainly won’t be the last. But her venture feels like a particularly blatant example of the widening gap between the haves and the have-nots, a world where even the pursuit of well-being is increasingly out of reach for so many. And that, frankly, leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Worse than a kale smoothie, and that’s saying something.
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