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 unweling 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 havingRunway on
my résumé 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 I remember how very； very awkward I was among the most
toned and stylish women in New York City。 I didn’t know until later；
until I hovered on the periphery of being one of them； just how much
they had laughed at me between the rounds of the interview。
After the requisite look…over； Knockout Girl led me to Cheryl
Kerston’s office；Runway ’s executive editor and all…around lovable
lunatic。 She； too； talked at me for what seemed like hours； but this
time I actually listened。 I listened because she seemed to love her
job； speaking excitedly about the “words” aspect of the magazine；
the wonderful copy she reads and writers she manages and editors she
oversees。
“I have absolutely nothing to do with the fashion side of this
place；” she declared proudly； “so it’s best to save those questions
for someone else。”
When I told her that it was really her job that sounded appealing；
that I had no particular interest or background in fashion； her
smile broadened to a genuine grin。 “Well； in that case； Andrea； you
might be just what we need around here。 I think it’s time for you to
meet Miranda。 And if I may offer a piece of advice？ Look her
straight in the eye and sell yourself。 Sell yourself hard and she’ll
respect it。”
As if on cue； Knockout Girl swept in to escort me to Miranda’s
office。 It was only a thirty…second walk； but I could sense that all
eyes were on me。 They peered at me from behind the frosted glass of
the editor’s office and from the open space of the assistants’
cubicles。 A beauty at the copier turned to check me out； and so did
an absolutely magnificent man； although he was obviously gay and
intent on examining only my outfit。 Just as I was about to walk
through the doorway that would lead me to the assistants’ suite
outside of Miranda’s office； Emily grabbed my briefcase and tossed
it under her desk。 It took only a moment for me to realize that the
message wasCarry that； lose all credibility。 And then I was standing
in her office； a wide…open space of huge windows and streaming
bright light。 No other details about the space made an impression
that day； I couldn’t take my eyes off of her。
Since I’d never seen so much as a picture of Miranda Priestly； I was
shocked to see howskinny she was。 The hand she held out was
small…boned； feminine； soft。 She had to turn her head upward to look
me in the eye； although she did not stand to greet me。 Her expertly
dyed blond hair was pulled back in a chic knot； deliberately loose
enough to look casual but still supremely neat； and while she did
not smile； she did not appear particularly intimidating。 She seemed
rather gentle and somewhat shrunken behind her ominous black desk；
and although she did not invite me to sit； I felt fortable enough
to claim one of the unfortable black chairs that faced her。 And
it was then I noticed： she was watching me intently； mentally noting
my attempts at grace and propriety with what seemed like amusement。
Condescending and awkward； yes； but not； I decided； particularly
mean…spirited。 She spoke first。
“What brings you toRunway； Ahn…dre…ah？” she asked in her upper…crust
British accent； never taking her eyes away from mine。
“Well； I interviewed with Sharon； and she told me that you’re
looking for an assistant；” I started； my voice a little shaky。 When
she nodded； my confidence increased slightly。 “And now； after
meeting with Emily； Allison； and Cheryl； I feel like I have a clear
understanding of the kind of person you’re looking for； and I’m
confident I’d be perfect for the job；” I said； remembering Cheryl’s
words。 She looked amused for a moment but seemed unfazed。
It was at this point that I began to want the job most desperately；
in the way people yearn for things they consider unattainable。 It
might not be akin to getting into law school or having an essay
published in a campus journal； but it was； in my starved…for…success
mind； a real challenge—a challenge because I was an imposter； and
not a very good one at that。 I had known the minute I stepped on
theRunway floor that I didn’t belong。 My clothes and hair were wrong
for sure； but more glaringly out of place was my attitude。 I didn’t
know anything about fashion and I didn’tcare 。 At all。 And
therefore； I had to have it。 Besides； a million girls would die for
this job。
I continued to answer her questions about myself with a
forthrightness and confidence that surprised me。 There wasn’t time
to be intimidated。 After all； she seemed pleasant enough and I；
amazingly； knew nothing to the contrary。 We stumbled a bit when she
inquired about any foreign languages I spoke。 When I told her I knew
Hebrew； she paused； pushed her palms flat on her desk and said
icily； “Hebrew？ I was hoping for French； or at least something
moreuseful 。” I almost apologized； but stopped myself。
“Unfortunately； I don’t speak a word of French； but I’m confident it
won’t be a problem。” She clasped her hands back together。
“It says