The Devil Wears Prada: Loved the movie? Read the book!. Lauren Weisberger

about the French impressionists, and writing obnoxiously long-winded English papers did not – in any conceivable way – prepare me for my very first post-college 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 at The 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 come 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 glass – oh, nausea, oh, make it stop. Friends stopping by to welcome 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 becoming stale. I figured I had about a week and a half left of exchanging leftover baht and rupees before I completely 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 half-hearted 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 come 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 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 completed 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 eleven A.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 suppose The Buzz would 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 pseudo-suit (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 actually wore 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 at Chic, Mantra, The Buzz, and Coquette. 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,