the devil wears prada | Page 9

matter�they were all utterly miserable. They whined
about the long days, the coworkers, and the office politics, but more than anything else, they complained
bitterly about the boredom. Compared with school, the tasks required of them were mindless,
unnecessary, fit for a chimp. They spoke of the many, many hours spent plugging numbers in databases
and cold-calling people who didn�t want to be called. Of listlessly cataloging years� worth of information
on a computer screen and researching entirely irrelevant subjects for months on end so their supervisors
thought they were productive. Each swore she�d actually gotten dumber in the short amount of time since
graduation, and there was no escape in sight. I might not particularly love fashion, but I�d sure rather do
something �fun� all day long than get sucked into a more boring job.
�Yes. It is great. Just great. I mean, really, really great. Anyway, nice to meet you. I�m going to go get
Allison for you to meet. She�s great, too.� Almost as quickly as she finished and departed behind the
glass in a rustle of leather and curls, a coltish figure appeared.
This striking black girl introduced herself as Allison, Miranda�s senior assistant who�d just been
promoted, and I knew immediately that she was simplytoo thin. But I couldn�t even focus on the way her
stomach caved inward and her pelvic bones pushed out because I was captivated by the fact she
exposed her stomach at work at all. She wore black leather pants, as soft as they were tight, and a fuzzy
(or was it furry?) white tank top strained across her breasts and ended two inches above her belly
button. Her long hair was as dark as ink and hung across her back like a thick, shiny blanket. Her fingers
and toes were polished with a luminescent white color, appearing to glow from within, and her open-toe
sandals gave her already six-foot frame an additional three inches. She managed to look incredibly sexy,
seminaked, and classy all at the same time, but to me she looked mostly cold. Literally. It was, after all,
November.
�Hi, I�m Allison, as you probably know,� she started, picking some of the tank top fur from her barely
there leather-clad thigh. �I was just promoted to an editor position, and that�s the really great thing about
working for Miranda. Yes, the hours are long and the work is tough, but it�s incredibly glamorous and a
million girls would die to do it. And Miranda is such a wonderful woman, editor,person, that she really
takes care of her own girls. You�ll skip years and years of working your way up the ladder by working
just one year for her; if you�re talented, she�ll send you straight to the top, and . . .� She rambled on, not
bothering to look up or feign any level of passion for what she was saying. Although I didn�t get the
impression she was particularly dumb, her eyes were glazed over in the way seen only in cult members or
the brainwashed. I had the distinct impression I could fall asleep, pick my nose, or simply leave and she
wouldn�t necessarily notice.
When she finally wrapped things up and went to go notify yet another interviewer, I nearly collapsed on
the unwelcoming reception-area sofas. It was all happening so fast, spiraling out of control, and yet I was
excited. So what if I didn�t know who Miranda Priestly was? Everyone else certainly seemed impressed
enough. Yeah, so it�s a fashion magazine and not something a little more interesting, but it�s a hell of a lot
better to work atRunway than some horrible trade publication somewhere, right? The prestige of

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havingRunway on my r�sum� was sure to give me even more credibility when I eventually applied to
work atThe New Yorker than, say, havingPopular Mechanics there. Besides, I�m sure a million
girlswould die for this job.
After a half hour of such ruminations, another tall and impossibly thin girl came to the reception area.
She told me her name but I couldn�t focus on anything except her body. She wore a tight, shredded
denim skirt, a see-through white button-down, and strappy silver sandals. She was also perfectly tanned
and manicured and exposed in such a way that normal people are not when there�s snow on the ground.
It wasn�t until she actually motioned for me to follow her back through the glass doors and I had to stand
up that I became acutely aware of my own horrendously inappropriate suit, limp hair, and utter lack of
accessories, jewelry, and grooming. To this day, the thought of what I wore�and that I carried
something resembling abriefcase �continues to haunt me. I can feel my face flame red as