The Devil Wears Prada

by Lauren Weisberger

‘Thank you for that never-ending narrative, Ahn-dre-ah. And may I ask what, exactly, you’ve been doing for the past thirty-five minutes?’ ‘Well, Miranda, the flight landed a few minutes late and then I still had—’ ‘Because according to the itinerary you created for me, I’m reading that your flight arrived at ten-thirty-five this morning.’ ‘Yes, that’s when it was scheduled to arrive, but you see—’ ‘I’ll not have you tell me what I see, Ahn-dre-ah. That is most certainly not acceptable behavior for the next week, do you understand me?’ ‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry.’ My heart began pounding what felt like a million beats a minute, and I could feel my face grow hot with humiliation. Humiliation at being spoken to that way, but more than anything, my own shame in pandering to it. I had just apologized – most sincerely – to someone for not being able to make my international flight land at the correct time and then for not being savvy enough to figure out how to avoid French customs entirely.