Seven years later, I reply STOP to the Coachella texts
+ other brands I can't seem to unsubscribe from
It’s an extraordinary task, trying to math out whether I was 27 or 28 the day I popped into Zara and left with a rainbow paisley co-ord set. The top tied at the center. The shorts billowed in the cold spring wind with labial recklessness. I was shopping for Coachella in the kind of fever you don’t feel until it breaks into existential calamity. Very sweaty crescendo. Definitely 27.
I said YES to everything in 2018. Shit I didn’t have the money for but knew would pay dividends on the “core memory” front before “core memory” was a thing and everything was still, most innocently, Good Vibes. Maybe I couldn’t have told you that would be the year Fisher dropped “Losin It,” but I did know a collective unraveling was afoot. I did know there was a kool-aid I needed to guzzle before it—and I—dried up forever.
My bestie had moved to Orange County and was planning Coachella with her random roommates and some of their business school friends. So it was basically a few of us central PA hicks and a bunch of UCLA baddies nestled in this desert mansion for the weekend, inhaling dust as Chris Lake thumped from various JBLs. The party never stopped. One night we rode air mattresses down the giant staircase.
I saved the rainbow paisley co-ord set for the last day, paired with cheap platform sandals from some sus boutique in Philly. It was the only day we decided to sneak these foldable flasks of Jack Daniels into the festival, and it ended up being one of the best days of my life. I had a history of hurtling glass ashtrays across the bar on dark liquor but at Coachella, in my rainbow paisley co-ord set, I was happy and calm. Coked out for sure, but in a way that was apparently harmonious with the environment. (You know, there’s coked out and there’s Coked Out But With Palm Trees, a condition native to Coachella and Miami.) Those sandals *both* broke the second I stepped onto the grounds, just in time to catch Cardi B. I spent the entire evening barefoot.
Have you ever taken a trip with a bunch of strangers and everyone just fucking likes each other a lot? Have you ever comfortably stood barefoot in the nighttime glow of an Odesza set, surrounded by people crying and kissing and thanking God, aloud, for this splendid life? It’s perfect. It sticks with you forever. Which is maybe why I’ve let the Coachella promotional texts come through for seven years now.
As evidenced by some 30k+ marketing emails in my inbox, I am glacial on the unsub. So Coachella wasn’t unique in that context. But I knew I was holding onto them with more intention than, say, the Drybar emails I never signed up for because I’VE NEVER BEEN THERE OR EVEN GOTTEN A BLOWOUT BEYOND MY WEDDING DAY, FROM MY HAIRDRESSER.
“Picture yourself here this April. Passes on sale now.”
Drone shot of endless grass studded with art installations, the ferris wheel. Rush of people with plenty of room to dance. Reminds me of those Bath & Body Works scents named for experiences and feelings rather than fragrance notes: “Into the Night,” “Sweetest Song,” “A Thousand Wishes.” Artificiality begets charm, evokes dreams unrealized. I always get got. I have Into the Night body lotion in my nightstand. I think, maybe I’ll go back to Coachella this year.
On April 8, 2025, just one week away from having my daughter, I finally put the nail in the coffin and replied “Stop.”
Two days later in the group chat, another bestie, who also happens to be the hottest person/freest spirit I know, noted that “Bianca will be born while Aunt Ari is at Coachella”—maybe her final hoorah before having kids herself. A stronger, less hormonal person wouldn’t spiral out wondering if they’ll ever feel hot and free-spirited ever again, but less than two weeks postpartum? Couldn’t be me.
I could see Ari floating above her cadre of southern California gays, leading them into the Yuma Tent like Joan of Arc in a Revolve ad that makes me wanna shop til I drop. And I wanted to be there with her. We’d lock pinkies and cement ourselves Forever Young by sheer virtue of party stamina at our big age. But I haven’t had a sip of alcohol since July of last year. Breastmilk leaks onto everything I own and I throw chicken sausage and frozen vegetables in the air fryer for eight minutes on 400 degrees and cobble sleep together in two-hour increments. Seven years is crazy.
Kinda cursed, my getting wistful over lazy festival SMS, probably fired off by some rosy intern chugging a Celsius in Depop Rick Owens. I know when to cut myself off. Let us, instead, go through my Promotions folder and assess a few other brands I’m holding onto…
sweetgreen. Going into the office 4x a week was rough during pregnancy. The sensory experience of taking public transportation into the busiest part of the city gave me panic attacks. And between my work bag, packed lunch, bump that my winter coat wouldn’t zip over, etc., I was encumbered. So I started letting myself buy a big salad every day for lunch. I’d send pictures of my big salads to my husband to let him know I was taking care of myself. I haven’t unsubscribed from sweetgreen because big salad represents my internal locus of control. It’s easy to think life is happening to us. You can just eat a big salad and remember you’re the captain of this ship.
SKIMS. I don’t own anything from Kim Kardashian’s beloved clothing brand, but there is a version of me that putzes around the house in these “shorts,” filling my days with a glamorous type of nothing. I admire SKIMS in that there’s no archetypal customer; they’ve captured everyone from the mall goth to the pilates princess. Real recognize real, so I’ll stay on the mailing list.
Steamboat Springs, CO. Anyone else receive marketing emails from a TOWN???? I went to Steamboat once (also 2018!) for no ass reason. I don’t do any snow sports, but I truly believed bopping around Colorado ski towns would inspire me to move out there and become a new person. Craft beer Patagonia electric vehicle jam band enjoyer.
Southern Living. Nora Ephron has this great essay, “Serial Monogamy: A Memoir” about her relationships with different cookbooks. Years of elaborate, multicultural dishes under her belt, she never quite found her style—that was, until she met southern cooking and lifestyle writer, Lee Bailey. At Lee’s, you ate pork chops, grits, collard greens, and baked crab apples. Everything was imperfect, easygoing, playful. I’ve had my own identity crises in the kitchen. At one point, I read a singular article from Southern Living and decided I would “get around to” becoming a better decorator and host. Yeah, that hasn’t happened. We’ve had a burnt out bulb in our dining room light fixture since moving in eight months ago. There is no art on the walls. I recently had friends over and served frozen burgers on the grill. I guess I’m waiting for my Lee Bailey to show up, maybe in a Southern Living email.
Old Navy. Some would say I do, in fact, have a realistic grasp on my life here in Audubon, New Jersey. I have traded my rainbow paisley co-ord set for affordable yoga pants.
I swear I’m not cooked but if you have to say it, you’re probably cooked.
What promotional emails and texts should you probably unsubscribe from, but just can’t cut the cord? What do they say about you/who you want to be? Lmk. Or just subscribe to this newsletter. What’s one more unread thing in the inbox, anyway?
“Labial recklessness” should win you an award for writing
Dia this is THE piece to describe that transition and reinvention at the start of motherhood as a true adulting era in your life... I may need to go and unsubscribe from a million lists, none of them as glam as coachella but so many of them appealing to an aspirational version of me that doesn't exist.