Coach-ella (-ella,-ella)Thursday, April 23 2015
The singing started in my head before I could even begin to plan my desert-gear—which hardly counts for much, for I tend to not overthink outfits (read: throw a messy pile into oversized suitcase and hope for best. “Dear PR girl, no my hair is not festival-ready. And neither is any other part of me!”). But I digress. Back to the singing in my head.
It started long before we received our American Airline flight confirmations; before I even had time to meticulously check the lineup and prep for the concert schedule. The words would not stop. Again and again. A festival of puns. Utter pundaemonium. For Coach was taking me to Coachella. (-ella, -ella, -ella). I know! Oh the banter to be had! Talk about meant to be.
The plan was flawless.
Coach was to provide the fashions: a Palm Spring-Summer 2015 worthy set ofcarry-alls(let’s stop pretending that this isn’t another streetstyle scene, albeit one in the middle of nowhere), that would allow me to drift from posing at their Desert House pool-party to frantically jumping up and down for AC/DC at the main stage.
Coachella, on the other hand, would ensure I leave with VIP-bags under my eyes (though no sleep does that to you regardless of your ticket status, I’m told).
Two types of bags; both essential to a good time (that, and sensible shoes, obviously! It might be Desert Fashion Week, but girl, you don’t want to miss Alt-J because you can only limp from one side of the field to the other).
The competition was harsh. The first-name-only girls running around the Soho House pop-up really put their best bag forward. Leggy Rosie and her Rivet Dakotah. Quirky Daisy in the mini Swagger. And then there was little old me, and her baby blue Drifter.
Blue-on-blue-on-blue. Yet zero blues. Nailed it.
This post was brought to you by Coach.