lose　all　hope　of　killing　her　yourself。　And　thatwould　be　a　shame。
  2
  I　knew　nothing　when　I　went　for　my　first　interview　and　stepped　onto
  the　infamous　Elias…Clark　elevators；　those　transporters　of　all
  thingsen　vogue　。　I　had　no　idea　that　the　city’s　most　well…connected
  gossip　columnists　and　socialites　and　media　executives　obsessed　over
  the　flawlessly　made…up；　turned…out；　turned…in　riders　of　those　sleek
  and　quiet　lifts。　I　had　never　seen　women　with　such　radiant　blond
  hair；　didn’t　know　that　those　brand…name　highlights　cost　six　grand　a
  year　to　maintain　or　that　others　in　the　know　could　identify　the
  colorists　after　a　quick　glance　at　the　finished　product。　I　had　never
  laid　eyes　on　such　beautiful　men。　They　were　perfectly　toned—not　too
  muscular　because　“that’snot　sexy”—and　they　showed　off　their　lifelong
  dedication　to　gymwork　in　finely　ribbed　turtlenecks　and　tight　leather
  pants。　Bags　and　shoes　I’d　never　seen　on　real　people　shoutedPrada！
  Armani！　Versace！　from　every　surface。　I　had　heard　from　a　friend　of　a
  friend—an　editorial　assistant　atChic　magazine—that　every　now　and
  then　the　accessories　get　to　meet　their　makers　in　those　very
  elevators；　a　touching　reunion　where　Miuccia；　Giorgio；　or　Donatella
  can　once　again　admire　their　summer　’02　stilettos　or　their　spring
  couture　teardrop　bag　in　person。　I　knew　things　were　changing　for　me—I
  just　wasn’t　sure　it　was　for　the　better。
  I　had；　until　this　point；　spent　the　past　twenty…three　years　embodying
  small…town　America。　My　entire　existence　was　a　perfect　cliché。
  Growing　up　in　Avon；　Connecticut；　had　meant　high　school　sports；　youth
  group　meetings；　“drinking　parties”　at　nice　suburban　ranch　Homes　when
  the　parents　were　away。　We　wore　sweatpants　to　school；　jeans　for
  Saturday　night；　ruffled　puffiness　for　semiformal　dances。　And
  college！　Well；　that　was　a　world　of　sophistication　after　high　school。
  Brown　had　provided　endless　activities　and　classes　and　groups　for
  every　imaginable　type　of　artist；　misfit；　and　puter　geek。　Whatever
  intellectual　or　creative　interest　I　wanted　to　pursue；　regardless　of
  how　esoteric　or　unpopular　it　may　have　been；　had　some　sort　of　outlet
  at　Brown。　High　fashion　was　perhaps　the　single　exception　to　this
  widely　bragged…about　fact。　Four　years　spent　muddling　around
  Providence　in　fleeces　and　hiking　boots；　learning　about　the　French
  impressionists；　and　writing　obnoxiously　long…winded　English　papers
  did　not—in　any　conceivable　way—prepare　me　for　my　very　first
  postcollege　job。
  I　managed　to　put　it　off　as　long　as　possible。　For　the　three　months
  following　graduation；　I’d　scrounged　together　what　little　cash　I
  could　find　and　took　off　on　a　solo　trip。　I　did　Europe　by　train　for　a
  month；　spending　much　more　time　on　beaches　than　in　museums；　and
  didn’t　do　a　very　good　job　of　keeping　in　touch　with　anyone　back　Home
  except　Alex；　my　boyfriend　of　three　years。　He　knew　that　after　the
  five　weeks　or　so　I　was　starting　to　get　lonely；　and　since　his　Teach
  for　America　training　had　just　ended　and　he　had　the　rest　of　the
  summer　to　kill　before　starting　in　September；　he　surprised　me　in
  Amsterdam。　I’d　covered　most　of　Europe　by　then　and　he’d　traveled　the
  summer　before；　so　after　a　not…so…sober　afternoon　at　one　of　the
  Coffee　shops；　we　pooled　our　traveler’s　checks　and　bought　two　one…way
  tickets　to　Bangkok。
  Together　we　worked　our　way　through　much　of　Southeast　Asia；　rarely
  spending　more　than　10　a　day；　and　talked　obsessively　about　our
  futures。　He　was　so　excited　to　start　teaching　English　at　one　of　the
  city’s　underprivileged　schools；　totally　taken　with　the　idea　of
  shaping　young　minds　and　mentoring　the　poorest　and　the　most
  neglected；　in　the　way　that　only　Alex　could　be。　My　goals　were　not　so
  lofty：　I　was　intent　on　finding　a　job　in　magazine　publishing。
  Although　I　knew　it　was　highly　unlikely　I’d　get　hired　atThe　New
  Yorker　directly　out　of　school；　I　was　determined　to　be　writing　for
  them　before　my　fifth　reunion。　It　was　all　I’d　ever　wanted　to　do；　the
  only　place　I’d　ever　really　wanted　to　work。　I’d　picked　up　a　copy　for
  the　first　time　after　I’d　heard　my　parents　discussing　an　article
  they’d　just　read　and　my　mom　had　said；　“It　was　so　well　written—you
  just　don’t　read　things　like　that　anymore；”　and　my　father　had　agreed；
  “No　doubt；　it’s　the　only　smart　thing　being　written　today。”　I’d　loved
  it。　Loved　the　snappy　reviews　and　the　witty　cartoons　and　the　feeling
  of　being　admitted　to　a　special；　members…only　club　for　readers。　I’d
  read　every　issue　for　the　past　seven　years　and　knew　every　section；
  every　editor；　and　every　writer　by　heart。
  Alex　and　I　talked　about　how　we　were　both　embarking　on　a　new　stage　in
  our　lives；　how　we　were　lucky　to　be　doing　it　together。　We　weren’t　in
  any　rush　to　get　back；　though；　somehow　sensing　that　this　would　be　the
  last　period　of　calm　before　the　craziness；　and　we　stupidly　extended
  our　visas　in　Delhi　so　we　could　have　a　few　extra　weeks　touring　in　the
  exotic　countryside　of　India。
  Well；　nothing　ends　the　romance　more　swiftly　than　amoebic　dysentery。
  I　lasted　a　week　in　a　filthy　Indian　hostel；　begging　Alex　not　to　leave
  me　for　dead　in　that　hellish　place。　Four　days　later　we　landed　in
  Newark　and　my　worried　mother　tucked　me　into　the　backseat　of　her　car
  and　clucked　the　entire　way　home。　In　a　way　it　was　a　Jewish　mother’s
  dream；　a　real　reason　to　visit　doctor　after　doctor　after　doctor；
  making　absolutely　sure　that　every　miserable　parasite　had　abandoned
  her　little　girl。　It　took　four　weeks　for　me　to　feel　human　again　and
  another　two　until　I　began　to　feel　that　living　at　Home　was
  unbearable。　Mom　and　Dad　were　great；　but　being　asked　where　I　was
  going　every　time　I　left　the　house—or　where　I’d　been　every　time　I
  returned—got　old　quickly。　I　called　Lily　and　asked　if　I　could　crash
  on　the　couch　of　her　tiny　Harlem　studio。　Out　of　the　kindness　of　her
  heart；　she　agreed。
  I　woke　up　in　that　tiny　Harlem　studio；　sweat…soaked。　My　forehead
  pounded；　my　stomach　churned；　every　nerve　shimmied　—shimmied　in　a
  very　unsexy　way。　Ah！　It’s　back；　I　thought；　horrified。　The　parasites
  had　found　their　way　back　into　my　body　and　I　was　bound　to　suffer
  eternally！　Or　what　if　it　was　worse？　Perhaps　I’d　contracted　a　rare
  form　of　late…developing　dengue　fever？　Malaria？　Possibly　even　Ebola？
  I　lay　in　silence；　trying　to　e　to　grips　with　my　imminent　death；
  when　snippets　from　the　night　before　came　back　to　me。　A　smoky　bar
  somewhere　in　the　East　Village。　Something　called　jazz　fusion　music。　A
  hot…pink　drink　in　a　martini　glassoh；　nausea；　oh；　make　it　stop。
  Friends　stopping　by　to　wele　me　Home。　A　toast；　a　gulp；　another
  toast。　Oh；　thank　god—it　wasn't　a　rare　strain　of　hemorrhagic　fever；
  it　was　just　a　hangover。　It　never　occurred　to　me　that　I　couldn’t
  exactly　hold　my　liquor　anymore　after　losing　twenty　pounds　to
  dysentery。　Five　feet　ten　inches　and　115　pounds　did　not　bode　well　for
  a　hard　night　out　（although；　in　retrospect；　it　boded　very　well　for
  employment　at　a　fashion　magazine）。
  I　bravely　extracted　myself　from　the　crippling　couch　I’d　been
  crashing　on　for　the　past　week　and　concentrated　all　my　energy　on　not
  getting　sick。　Adjustment　to　America—the　food；　the　manners；　the
  glorious　showers—hadn’t　been　too　grueling；　but　the　houseguest　thing
  was　quickly　being　stale。　I　figured　I　had　about　a　week　and　a　half
  left　of　exchanging　leftover　baht　and　rupees　before　I　pletely　ran
  out　of　cash；　and　the　only　way　to　get　money　from　my　parents　was　to
  return　to　the　never…ending　circuit　of　second　opinions。　That　sobering
  thought　was　the　single　thing　propelling　me　from　bed；　on　what　would
  be　a　fateful　November　day；　to　where　I　was　expected　in　one　hour　for
  my　very　first　job　interview。　I’d　spent　the　last　week　parked　on
  Lily’s　couch；　still　weak　and　exhausted；　until　she　finally　yelled　at
  me　to　leave—if　only　for　a　few　hours　each　day。　Not　sure　what　else　to
  do　with　myself；　I　bought　a　MetroCard　and　rode　the　subways；
  listlessly　dropping　off　résumés　as　I　went。　I　left　them　with　security
  guards　at　all　the　big　magazine　publishers；　with　a　halfhearted　cover
  letter　explaining　that　I　wanted　to　be　an　editorial　assistant　and
  gain　some　magazine　writing　experience。　I　was　too　weak　and　tired　to
  care　if　anyone　actually　read　them；　and　the　last　thing　I　was
  expecting　was　an　interview。　But　Lily’s　phone　had　rung　just　the　day
  before　and；　amazingly；　someone　from　human　resources　at　Elias…Clark
  wanted　me　to　e　in　for　a　“chat。”　I　wasn’t　sure　if　it　would　be
  considered　an　official　interview　or　not；　but　a　“chat”　sounded　more
  palatable　either　way。
  I　washed　down　Advil　with　Pepto　and　managed　to　assemble　a　jacket　and
  pants　that　did　not　match　and　in　no　way　created　a　suit；　but