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时尚女魔头 穿普拉达的恶魔 英文原版-第3部分

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  lose all hope of killing her yourself。 And thatwould be a shame。

  2

  I knew nothing when I went for my first interview and stepped onto 
  the infamous Elias…Clark elevators; those transporters of all 
  thingsen vogue 。 I had no idea that the city’s most well…connected 
  gossip columnists and socialites and media executives obsessed over 
  the flawlessly made…up; turned…out; turned…in riders of those sleek 
  and quiet lifts。 I had never seen women with such radiant blond 
  hair; didn’t know that those brand…name highlights cost six grand a 
  year to maintain or that others in the know could identify the 
  colorists after a quick glance at the finished product。 I had never 
  laid eyes on such beautiful men。 They were perfectly toned—not too 
  muscular because “that’snot sexy”—and they showed off their lifelong 
  dedication to gymwork in finely ribbed turtlenecks and tight leather 
  pants。 Bags and shoes I’d never seen on real people shoutedPrada! 
  Armani! Versace! from every surface。 I had heard from a friend of a 
  friend—an editorial assistant atChic magazine—that every now and 
  then the accessories get to meet their makers in those very 
  elevators; a touching reunion where Miuccia; Giorgio; or Donatella 
  can once again admire their summer ’02 stilettos or their spring 
  couture teardrop bag in person。 I knew things were changing for me—I 
  just wasn’t sure it was for the better。

  I had; until this point; spent the past twenty…three years embodying 
  small…town America。 My entire existence was a perfect cliché。 
  Growing up in Avon; Connecticut; had meant high school sports; youth 
  group meetings; “drinking parties” at nice suburban ranch Homes when 
  the parents were away。 We wore sweatpants to school; jeans for 
  Saturday night; ruffled puffiness for semiformal dances。 And 
  college! Well; that was a world of sophistication after high school。 
  Brown had provided endless activities and classes and groups for 
  every imaginable type of artist; misfit; and puter geek。 Whatever 
  intellectual or creative interest I wanted to pursue; regardless of 
  how esoteric or unpopular it may have been; had some sort of outlet 
  at Brown。 High fashion was perhaps the single exception to this 
  widely bragged…about fact。 Four years spent muddling around 
  Providence in fleeces and hiking boots; learning about the French 
  impressionists; and writing obnoxiously long…winded English papers 
  did not—in any conceivable way—prepare me for my very first 
  postcollege 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 atThe 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 e 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 glassoh; nausea; oh; make it stop。 
  Friends stopping by to wele 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 being stale。 I figured I had about a week and a half 
  left of exchanging leftover baht and rupees before I pletely 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 halfhearted 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 e 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
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