This story was originally written by Henry David Thoreau .
Beware of all enterprises that needs new clothes.
enjoy
.
i'll be posting one chapter every two to three days so better see it many times
.
PS: This story is ACTUALLY for girls but when i've read it(its an accident, but very long sotry,so focus on the story:) ), i somehow liked it . 
. CHAPTER 1 I knew nothing when I first stepped on the infamous elevator of Elias-Clark Building for
my first interview. I had no idea that the city's most well-connected gossipers and
socialites and media executives were 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, and didn't know that those brand-names costs six grand a year to maintain in
that others in the know could identify the colorists after a quick glance at the finished
product. I had never laid eyes on such a beautiful men. They were perfectly tones - not
too muscular because "that's not sexy" - and they showed off their life long dedication to
gymwork in finely rubbed turtlenecks and tight leather pants. Bags and shoes i'd never
seen on real people with brands Prada, Armani, and Versace from every surface.l i had
heard from from an editorial assistant at Chic magazine - that every now and then the
accessories get to meet their makers in those very elevators, a touching reunion
between 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 if it's for the better.
I had, until this point, spent the past twenty- three years embodying small-town
America. My entire existence was a prefect cliche. Growing up on Avon, Connecticut, had
meant high school sports, youth group meetings, drinking parties at nice suburban ranch
homes when the parents were away. We wore sweat pants to school, jeans for Saturday
night, ruffled puffiness for semiformal dances. And college! Well, that was a world of
sophistication after high school. Whatever intellectual or creative interest I wanted to
pursue had some sort of outlet at Brown. High school 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 prepare me for my post college job.
For the three months following graduation, i'd scrounged together what little cash I
could find and took off a solo trip. I did Europe by train for a month, spending much more
time on beaches rather than museums and didn't do a very good touch to anyone back
home except Alex, my boyfriend for three years. He knew that after five weeks 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 staring in September, he surprised me in Amsterdam.
I'd covered most of Europe by then and traveled 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. 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 at The New Yorker directly out of school, I was determined to be writing for
them before my fifth reunion. It was the all i'd ever wanted to do, the only place i'd really
ever wanted to work.
Well, nothing ends the romance more swiftly than amoebic dysentry. 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
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- 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 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. i figured i had about one and a
half week left of exchanging leftover baht and rupees before i completely ran out of cash,
and the only way to get money from my parents was ti return to the never-ending circuit
of second opinions. That sobering though was the single thing propelling me from bed, on
what would be a fateful November day, to where i was expected i 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. i bought
MetroCard and rode the subways, listlessly dropping off resumes 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 editing
experience. Lily's phone had rung just the day before and, amazingly, someone from
human resources at Elias-Clark wanted me to come in for a "chat". i wasn't sure if it would
be considered an official interview or not,but a "chat" had 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 at least they stayed put on my emaciated
frame.
to be continued
Wed Jun 24, 2009 5:01 pm
