pants　that　did　not　match　and　in　no　way　created　a　suit；　but　at　least
  they　stayed　put　on　my　emaciated　frame。　A　blue　button…down；　a
  not…too…perky　ponytail；　and　a　pair　of　slightly　scuffed　flats
  pleted　my　look。　It　wasn’t　great—in　fact；　it　bordered　on　supremely
  ugly—but　it　would　have　to　suffice。They’re　not　going　to　hire　me　or
  reject　me　on　the　outfit　alone；　I　remember　thinking。　Clearly；　I　was
  barely　lucid。
  I　showed　up　on　time　for　my　elevenA　。M。　interview　and　didn’t　panic
  until　I　encountered　the　line　of　leggy；　Twiggy　types　waiting　to　be
  permitted　to　board　the　elevators。　Their　lips　never　stopped　moving；
  and　their　gossip　was　punctuated　only　by　the　sound　of　their　stilettos
  clacking　on　the　floor。Clackers；　I　thought。That’s　perfect。　（The
  elevators！）Breathe　in；　breathe　out；　I　reminded　myself。You　will　not
  throw　up。　You　will　not　throw　up。　You’re　just　here　to　talk　about
  being　an　editorial　assistant；　and　then　it’s　straight　back　to　the
  couch。　You　will　not　throw　up。　“Why　yes；　I’d　love　to　work　at
  Reaction！Well；　sure；　I　supposeThe　Buzzwould　be　suitable。　Oh；　what？　I
  may　have　my　pick？　Well；　I’ll　need　the　night　to　decide　between　there
  and　Maison　Vous。Delightful！”
  Moments　later　I　was　sporting　a　rather　unflattering　“guest”　sticker
  on　my　rather　unflattering　pseudosuit　（not　soon　enough；　I　discovered
  that　guests　in　the　know　simply　stuck　these　passes　on　their　bags；　or；
  even　better；　discarded　them　immediately—only　the　most　uncouth　losers
  actuallywore　them）　and　heading　toward　the　elevators。　And　then　。　。　。
  I　boarded。　Up；　up；　up　and　away；　hurtling　through　space　and　time　and
  infinite　sexiness　en　route　to　。　。　。　human　resources。
  I　allowed　myself　to　relax　for　a　moment　or　two　during　that　swift；
  quiet　ride。　Deep；　pouty　perfumes　mixed　with　the　smell　of　fresh
  leather　to　turn　those　elevators　from　the　merely　functional　to　the
  almost　erotic。　We　whisked　between　floors；　stopping　to　let　out　the
  beauties　atChic；　Mantra；　The　Buzz；　andCoquette　。　The　doors　opened
  silently；　reverently；　to　stark　white　reception　areas。　Chic　furniture
  with　clean；　simple　lines　dared　people　to　sit；　ready　to　scream　out　in
  agony　if　anyone—horror！—spilled。　The　magazines’　names　rested　in　bold
  black　and　identifiable；　individual　typeface　along　the　walls　that
  flanked　the　lobby。　Thick；　opaque　glass　doors　protected　the　titles。
  They’re　names　the　average　American　recognizes　but　never　imagines　to
  be　turning　and　churning　and　spinning　under　one　very　high　city　roof。
  While　I’d　admittedly　never　held　a　job　more　impressive　than　frozen
  yogurt　scooper；　I’d　heard　enough　stories　from　my　newly　minted
  professional　friends　to　know　that　corporate　life　just　didn’t　look
  like　this。　Not　even　close。　Absent　were　the　nauseating　fluorescent
  lights；　the　never…shows…dirt　carpeting。　Where　dowdy　secretaries
  should　have　been　ensconced；　polished　young　girls　with　prominent
  cheekbones　and　power　suits　presided。　Office　supplies　didn’t　exist！
  Those　basic　necessities　like　organizers；　garbage　cans；　and　books
  were　simply　not　present。　I　watched　as　six　floors　disappeared　in
  swirls　of　white　perfection　before　I　felt　the　venom　and　heard　the
  voice。
  “She。　Is。　Such。　A。　Bitch！　Icannot　deal　with　her　anymore。　Who　does
  that？　I　mean；　really—WHO　DOES　THAT？”　hissed　a　twenty…something　girl
  in　a　snakeskin　skirt　and　a　very　mini　tank　top；　looking　more　suited
  for　a　late　night　at　Bungalow　8　than　a　day　at　the　office。
  “I　know。　Iknooooooow。　Like；　what　do　you　think　I’ve　had　to　put　up
  with　for　the　past　six　months？　Total　bitch。　And　terrible　taste；　too；”
  agreed　her　friend；　with　an　emphatic　shake　of　her　adorable　bob。
  Mercifully；　I　arrived　at　my　floor　and　the　elevator　slid
  open。Interesting；　I　thought。　If　you’re　paring　this　potential　work
  environment　to　an　average　day　in　the　life　of　a　cliquey　junior　high
  girl；　it　might　even　be　better。　Stimulating？　Well；　maybe　not。　Kind；
  sweet；　nurturing？　No；　not　exactly。　The　kind　of　place　that　just　makes
  you　want　to　smile　and　do　a　great　job？　No；　OK？　No！　But　if　you’re
  looking　for　fast；　thin；　sophisticated；　impossibly　hip；　and
  heart…wrenchingly　stylish；　Elias…Clark　is　mecca。
  The　gorgeous　jewelry　and　impeccable　makeup　of　the　human　resources
  receptionist　did　nothing　to　allay　my　overwhelming　feelings　of
  inadequacy。　She　told　me　to　sit　and　“feel　free　to　look　over　some　of
  our　titles。”　Instead；　I　tried　frantically　to　memorize　the　names　of
  all　the　editors　in　chief　of　the　pany’s　titles—as　if　they　were
  going　to　actually　quiz　me　on　them。　Ha！　I　already　knew　Stephen
  Alexander；　of　course；　forReaction　magazine；　and　it　wasn’t　too　hard
  to　rememberThe　Buzz　’s　Tanner　Michel。　Those　were　really　the　only
  interesting　things　they　published　anyway；　I　figured。　I’d　do　fine。
  A　short；　svelte　woman　introduced　herself　as　Sharon。　“So；　dear；
  you’re　looking　to　break　into　magazines；　are　you？”　she　asked　as　she
  led　me　past　a　string　of　long…legged　model　look…alikes　to　her　stark；
  cold　office。　“It’s　a　tough　thing　to　do　right　out　of　college；　you
  know。　Lots　and　lots　of　petition　out　there　for　very　few　jobs。　And
  the　few　jobs　that　are　available；　well！　They’re　not　exactly
  high…paying；　if　you　know　what　I　mean。”
  I　looked　down　at　my　cheap；　mismatched　suit　and　very　wrong　shoes　and
  wondered　why　I’d　even　bothered。　Already　deep　in　thought　over　how　I
  was　going　to　crawl　back　to　that　sofa　bed　with　enough　Cheez…Its　and
  cigarettes　to　last　a　fortnight；　I　barely　noticed　when　she　almost
  whispered；　“But　I　have　to　say；　there’s　an　amazing　opportunity　open
  right　now；　and　it’s　going　to　go　fast！”
  Hmm。　My　antennae　perked　up　as　I　tried　to　force　her　to　make　eye
  contact　with　me。　Opportunity？　Go　fast？　My　mind　was　racing。　She
  wanted　to　help　me？　She　liked　me？　Why；　I　hadn’t　even　opened　my　mouth
  yet—how　could　shelike　me？　And　why　exactly　was　she　starting　to　sound
  like　a　car　salesman？
  “Dear；　can　you　tell　me　the　name　of　the　editor　in　chief　ofRunway　？”
  she　asked；　looking　pointedly　at　me　for　the　first　time　since　I’d　sat
  down。
  Blank。　pletely　and　totally　blank；　I　couldn’t　remember　a　thing。　I
  couldn’t　believe　she　wasquizzing　me！　I’d　never　read　an　issue
  ofRunway　in　my　life—she　wasn’t　allowed　to　ask　me　aboutthat　one。　No
  one　cared　aboutRunway　。　It　was　afashion　magazine；　for　chrissake；　one
  I　wasn’t　even　sure　contained　any　writing；　just　lots　of
  hungry…looking　models　and　glossy　ads。　I　stammered　for　a　moment　or
  two；　while　the　different　names　of　editors　I’d　just　before　forced　my
  brain　to　remember　all　swirled　inside　my　head；　dancing　together　in
  mismatched　pairs。　Somewhere　in　the　deep　recesses　of　my　mind；　I　was
  sure　I　knew　her　name—after　all；　who　didn’t？　But　it　wouldn’t　gel　in
  my　addled　brain。
  “Uh；　well；　it　seems　I　can’t　recall　her　name　right　now。　But　I　know　I
  know　it；　of　course　I　know　it。　Everyone　knows　who　she　is！　I　just；
  well；　don’t；　uh；　seem　to　know　it　right　now。”
  She　peered　at　me　for　a　moment；　her　large　brown　eyes　finally　fixated
  on　my　now　perspiring　face。　“Miranda　Priestly；”　she　near…whispered；
  with　a　mixture　of　reverence　and　fear。　“Her　name　is　Miranda
  Priestly。”
  Silence　ensued。　For　what　felt　like　a　full　minute；　neither　of　us　said
  a　word；　but　then　Sharon　must　have　made　the　decision　to　overlook　my
  crucial　misstep。　I　didn’t　know　then　that　she　was　desperate　to　hire
  another　assistant　for　Miranda；　couldn’t　know　that　she　was　desperate
  to　stop　this　woman　from　calling　her　day　and　night；　grilling　her
  about　potential　candidates。　Desperate　to　find　someone；　anyone；　whom
  Miranda　wouldn’t　reject。　And　if　I　might—however　unlikely—stand　even
  the　smallest　chance　of　getting　hired　and　thereby　relieve　her；　well；
  then　attention　must　be　paid。
  Sharon　smiled　tersely　and　told　me　I　was　going　to　meet　with　Miranda’s
  two　assistants。Two　assistants？
  “Why　yes；”　she　confirmed　with　an　exasperated　look。　“Of　course
  Miranda　needs　two　assistants。　Her　current　senior　assistant；　Allison；
  has　been　promoted　to　beRunway　’s　beauty　editor；　and　Emily；　the
  junior　assistant；　will　be　taking　Allison’s　place。　That　leaves　the
  junior　position　open　for　someone！
  “Andrea；　I　know　you’ve　just　graduated　from　college　and　probably
  aren’t　entirely　familiar　with　the　inner　workings　of　the　magazine
  world　。　。　。”　She　paused　dramatically；　searching　for　the　right　words。
  “But　I　feel　it’s　my　duty；　myobligation；　to　tell　you　what　a　truly
  incredible　opportunity　this　is。　Miranda　Priestly　。　。　。”　She　paused
  again　just　as　dramatically；　as　though　she　were　mentally　bowing。
  “Miranda　Priestly　is　the　single　most　influential　woman　in　the
  fashion　industry；　and　clearly　one　of　the　most　prominent　magazine
  editors　in　the　wo