The devil might wear Prada, but chances are she didn't pay for it.
Before I began my internship this summer at People magazine, I was nervous. I knew I would have to adjust to a foreign world of celebrity gossip and magazine design - a contrast from my Martha-Stewart-Weddings-reading, Collegian-newspaper-designing world. I packed my bags full of clips, résumés and a few interchangeable professional clothing items from the Gap. I didn't know that my bland, basic fashions would matter so much. After all, I wasn't at Vogue.
I should have noticed I stuck out when I first got off the plane at John F. Kennedy International Airport. In my "fat pants" (the pants I would wear to work out if I had time to) and K-State windbreaker, it wasn't hard to tell I'm not a New Yorker.
Passengers with Brooklyn accents warned me not to take drinks from strangers or walk around at night by myself. They must have thought they were protecting the little Kansas girl, never mind that I spent all but the last year of my life in southern California. Like I said, I stood out. I didn't realize until the next day how important appearances were in that world.
I woke up and put on my khaki Gap A-line skirt and the pink cardigan I reserve for interviews and holidays. I topped off my outfit with a pair of lightly scuffed, slip-on tan chunky heels that I bought the summer before my freshman year.
When I stepped out of my residence hall at Columbia, I didn't feel too out of place. I seemed to blend with the assortment of Ivy leaguers on the way to their respective financial district internships. I, however, have never been good at math and hopped on the southbound 1 train for my magazine internship. There I began to notice lots of tall, skinny girls in clothes mannequins can't even pull off. This was my fist exposure to NY fashion at its pinnacle: models.
I brushed them off as an unattainable and unrealistic and headed down the street to the Time-Life building.
I pushed through the revolving door into the 40-floor building of my publishing dreams. It was like a scene from "The Devil Wears Prada," which was filmed in the building, complete with the "clackers." And, yes, I felt like Andy, the main character. I immediately felt like I needed to go shopping.
As the day progressed, it only got worse. On my elevator ride up to the 30th floor, where People is sandwiched between Sports Illustrated and Time, I saw a variety of work attire. The people wearing striped polos and khakis or nice jeans got off on the Sports Illustrated floor, but as we continued up, I noticed two categories of clothing left: the people who shopped at Banana Republic and J.Crew, and people who looked like the models on the subway. Unfortunately for me, the latter got off on my floor.
In my teacher clothes, I felt out of place. I walked to my cubicle in the art department, thinking I'd be safe from what I hoped were beauty department fashionistas.
Ignorantly, I thought graphic designers and photo editors wouldn't care about appearances, but then I met the art director. A model-thin woman close to my mom's age, Rina was dressed in a top that looked far more appropriate for a dinner on the town than a day at the office.
On my lunch break, I waited in the cafeteria line behind women with nothing but iceberg lettuce on their plates. Not all of them were thin, but I got the feeling a healthy salad was the latest in cafeteria fashion.
After lunch, I returned to my desk to find Rina in a new ensemble - a tank top and athletic pants. I remembered the salad. She seemed to want people to know, like the girls in the cafeteria, that she was health-conscious and gave up her lunch hour to hit the gym.
When work was over, I frantically ran to H&M to try to find some business-casual clothing with enough chic for the magazine world. I came home with a new teal sweater and a denim skirt and plopped on the couch to complain to my roommate about my day.
A recent graduate of Howard University with three internships under her belt and a pending job offer from the Wall Street Journal, Nakisha was not what you'd expect of a fashion intern. She was a fellow California native who had been in my shoes summers before and was able to dispel the myth I'd just witnessed.
Nakisha told me that the fashionable clothes I had seen all day were given to these people free from publicists or friends who knew publicists. And what wasn't free probably came from sample sales. They too were faced with the same experience when they started their jobs. Afraid of being found out, it's likely they also ran to buy a new outfit.
I kept the sweater and the skirt and bought a few more outfits during the summer. Looking back, I realize that though I didn't feel I fit in, I got the job because I could perform the part, not look it.
