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its size。 I had naively eyed the tiny square and decided that it had
to be close to a normal…size room and that I’d just buy the usual
bedroom set： a queen…size bed； a dresser； maybe a nightstand or two。
Lily and I had taken Alex’s car to Ikea； the postcollege apartment
mecca； and picked out a beautiful light…colored wood set and a woven
rug with shades of light blue； dark blue； royal blue； and indigo。
Again； like fashion； Home decorating was not my strong suit： I
believe that Ikea was into its “Blue Period。” We bought a duvet
cover with a blue…flecked pattern and the fluffiest forter they
sold。 She persuaded me to get one of those Chinese rice…paper lamps
for the nightstand； and I chose some preframed black…and…white
pictures to plement the deep red roughness of my much…hyped
exposed brick wall。 Elegant and casual； and not a little Zen。
Perfect for my first adult room in the big city。
Perfect； that is； until it all actually arrived。 It seems simply
eyeing a room isn’t quite the same as measuring it。 Nothing fit。
Alex put the bed together and by the time he’d pushed it against the
exposed…brick wall （Manhattan code for “unfinished wall”） it had
consumed the entire room。 I had to send the delivery men back with
the six…drawer dresser； the two adorable nightstands； and even the
full…length mirror。 The men and Alex did lift up the bed； however；
and I was able to slip the tri…blue rug under it； and a few blue
inches peeked out from underneath the wooden behemoth。 The
rice…paper lamp had no nightstand or dresser on which to rest； so I
simply placed it on the floor； wedged in the six inches between the
bed frame and the sliding closet door。 And even though I tried
special mounting tape； nails； duct tape； screws； wires； Krazy Glue；
double…sided tape； and much cursing； the framed photos refused to
adhere to the exposed brick wall。 After nearly three hours of effort
and knuckles rubbed bleeding and raw from the brick； I finally
propped them up on the windowsill。 It was for the best； I thought。
Blocked a bit of the direct view the woman living across the
airshaft had into my room。 None of it mattered； though。 Not the
airshaft instead of a majestic skyline or the lack of drawer space
or the closet that was too small to hold a winter coat。 The room was
mine—the first I could decorate all on my own； with no input from
parents or roommates—and I loved it。
It was the Sunday night before my first day of work； and I could do
nothing but agonize over what to wear the next day。 Kendra； the
nicer of my two apartmentmates； kept poking her head in and asking
quietly if she could help at all。 Considering the two of them wore
ultraconservative suits to work each day； I declined any fashion
input。 I paced the living room as much as I could manage when each
length only took four strides； and sat down on the futon in front of
the TV。 Just what does one wear to the first day working for the
most fashionable fashion editor of the most fashionable fashion
magazine in existence？ I’d heard of Prada （from the few Jappy girls
who carried the backpacks at Brown） and Louis Vuitton （because both
of my grandmothers sported the signature…print bags without
realizing how cool they were） and maybe even Gucci （because who
hasn’t heard of Gucci？）。 But I sure didn’t own a single stitch of
it； and I wouldn’t have known what to do with it if the entire
contents of all three stores resided in my miniature closet。 I
walked back to my room—or； rather； the wall…to…wall mattress that I
called a room—and collapsed on that big； beautiful bed； banging my
ankle on the bulky frame。 Shit。 What now？
After much agonizing and clothes…flinging； I finally decided on a
light blue sweater and a knee…length black skirt； with my knee…high
black boots。 I already knew that a briefcase wouldn’t fly there； so
I was left with no choice but to use my black canvas purse。 The last
thing I remember about that night was trying to navigate around my
massive bed in high…heeled boots； a skirt； and no shirt； and sitting
down to rest from the exhaustion of the effort。
I must have passed out from sheer anxiety； because it was adrenaline
alone that awakened me at 5：30A 。M。 I bolted from the bed。 My nerves
had been in perpetual overdrive all week； and my head felt like it
would explode。 I had exactly an hour and a half to shower； dress；
and make my way from my fraternity…like building at 96th and Third
to midtown via public transportation； a still sinister and
intimidating concept。 That meant I had to allot an hour for travel
time and a half hour to make myself beautiful。
The shower was horrific。 It made a high…pitched squealing noise like
one of those dog…training whistles； remaining steadfastly lukewarm
until just before I stepped out into the freezing…cold bathroom； at
which point the water turned scalding。 It took a mere three days
ofthat routine before I began sprinting from my bed； turning on the
shower fifteen minutes early； and heading back under the covers。
When I snoozed three more times with the alarm clock and went back
for round two in the bathroom； the mirrors would be all steamed up
from the gloriously hot—although trickling—water。
I got myself into my binding and unfortable outfit and out the
door in twenty…five minutes—a record。 And it took only ten minutes
to find the nearest subway； something I should’ve done the night
before but was too busy scoffing at my mother’s suggestion to take a
“run…through” so I wouldn’t get lost。 When I’d gone for the
interview the week before I’d taken a cab； and I was already
convinced that this subway experiment was going to be a nightmare。
But； remarkably； there was an English…speaking attendant in the
bo