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him。
9
It took me twelve weeks before I gorged myself on the seemingly
limitless supply of designer clothes thatRunway was just begging to
provide for me。 Twelve impossibly long weeks of fourteen…hour work
days and never more than five hours of sleep at a time。 Twelve
miserable long weeks of being looked up and down from hair to shoes
each and every day； and never receiving a single pliment or even
merely the impression that I had passed。 Twelve horrifically long
weeks of feeling stupid； inpetent； and all…around moronic。 And so
I decided at the beginning of my fourth month （only nine more to
go！） atRunway to be a new woman and start dressing the part。
Getting myself awake； dressed； and out the door prior to my
twelve…week epiphany had sapped me pletely—even I had to concede
that it’d be easier to own a closetful of “appropriate” clothes。
Until that point； putting on clothes had been the most stressful
part of an already really lousy morning routine。 The alarm went off
so early that I couldn’t bear to tell anyone what time I actually
woke up； as though the mere mention of the words inflicted physical
pain。 Getting to work at sevenA 。M。 was so difficult it bordered on
funny。 Sure； I’d been up and out a few times in my life by
seven—perhaps sitting in an airport when I had to catch an early
flight or having to finish studying for an exam that day。 But mostly
when I’d seen that hour of daylight from the outside it was because
I hadn’t yet found my way to bed from the night before； and the time
didn’t seem so bad when a full day of sleep stretched out ahead。
This was different。 This was constant； unrelenting； inhumane sleep
deprivation； and no matter how many times I tried to go to bed
before midnight； I never could。 The past two weeks had been
particularly rough since they were closing one of the spring issues；
so I had to sit at work； waiting for the Book； until close to eleven
some nights。 By the time I would drop it off and get Home； it was
already midnight； and I still had to eat something and crawl out of
my clothes before passing out。
Blaring static—the only thing I couldn’t ignore—began at exactly
5：30A 。M。 I would force a bare foot out from under the forter and
stretch my leg in the general direction of the alarm clock （which
itself was placed strategically at the foot of my bed to force some
movement）； kicking aimlessly until I had made contact and the
shrieking ceased。 This continued； steadily and predictably； every
seven minutes until 6：04A 。M。； at which point I would inevitably
panic and spring from bed to shower。
A tangle with my closet came next； usually between 6：31 and 6：37A
。M。 Lily； herself not exactly fashion…conscious in her graduate
student uniform of jeans； ratty L。L。Bean sweaters； and hemp
necklaces； said every time I saw her； “I still don’t understand what
you wear to work。 It’sRunway magazine； for god’s sake。 Your clothes
are as cute as the next girl’s； Andy； but nothing you own isRunway
material。”
I didn’t tell her that for the first few months I had risen extra
early with an intense determination to coaxRunway looks from my very
Banana Republic–heavy wardrobe。 I’d stood with my microwaved coffee
for nearly a half hour each morning； agonizing over boots and belts；
wool； and microfiber。 I’d change stockings five times until I
finally had the right color； only to berate myself that stockings of
any style or color wereso not OK 。 The heels on my shoes were always
too short； too stacked； too thick。 I didn’t own a single thing in
cashmere。 I had not yet heard of thongs （！） and therefore obsessed
maniacally over how to banish panty lines； themselves the focus of
many a Coffee…break critique。 No matter how many times I tried them
on； I couldn’t bring myself to wear a tube top to work。
And so after three months； I surrendered。 I just got too tired。
Emotionally； physically； mentally； the daily wardrobe ordeal had
sapped me of all energy。 Until； that is； I relented on the
three…month anniversary of my first day。 It was a day like any other
as I stood with my yellow “I ？ Providence” mug in one hand； the
other hand rifling through my Abercrombie favorites。Why fight it？ I
asked myself。 Simply wearing their clothes wouldn’t necessarily mean
I was a total sellout； would it？ And besides； the ments on my
current wardrobe were being more frequent and vicious； and I had
begun to wonder if my job was at risk。 I looked in the full…length
mirror and had to laugh： the girl in the Maidenform bra （ich！） and
cotton Jockey bikinis （double ich！） was trying to look the part
ofRunway ？ Hah。 Not with this shit。 I was working atRunway magazine
for chrissake—simply putting on anything that wasn’t torn； frayed；
stained； or outgrown really wasn’t going to cut it anymore。 I pushed
aside my generic button…downs and ferreted out the tweedy Prada
skirt； black Prada turtleneck； and midcalf length Prada boots that
Jeffy had handed me one night while I waited for the Book。
“What’s this？” I’d asked； unzipping the garment bag。
“This； Andy； is what you should be wearing if you don’t want to get
fired。” He smiled； but he wouldn’t look me in the eye。
“I’m sorry？”
“Look； I just think you should know that your； uh； your look isn’t
really going over well with everyone around here。 Now； I know this
stuff gets expensive； but there’s ways around that。 I’ve got so much
stuff in the Closet that no one will notice if you need to； uh；
borrow some of it sometimes。” He made quote marks with his fingers
around the word “borrow。” “And； of course； you should be calling all
the PR people and getting your discount card for their designers。 I
only get thirty percent off； bu