How Glamour Magazine RUINED my Career

There was this one time that I had a meeting with Glamour Magazine. That’s right. THE Glamour Magazine.

Yeah, I know. It’s not The New Yorker. It’s not even Elle or W. But it is a real magazine. And one that that can claim to be a small, but very important, step above Us Weekly.

So yeah, it was kind of a big deal for me.

So big, in fact, that it warranted a trip to J.Crew for an all-out 90’s chick-flick shopping montage to select the perfect “pitch meeting” outfit. After at least three songs worth of trying on clothes in fast-forward, I settled on a cream and navy blue striped frock with a smart navy blazer and a thin, neon pink belt for that little extra panache every interview outfit needs.

I am not exaggerating when I say, I looked EXACTLY like Zooey Deschanel. I was ready.

The night before my big meeting, the one that was going to land me my dream job of becoming a big-time staff writer for a national publication, I had the hot shot idea to drive to Connecticut to spend the night with my cousin and her husband before heading into “The City” the next morning.

“The City”. I hadn’t even had my interview yet and I was already starting to act like a jackass from The Big Apple.

After a night of fitful sleep, during which the beady eyes of a wolfhound were locked on my every move (Maybe it wasn’t exactly a wolfhound, but it was a giant dog who looked pretty peeved that I was sleeping in his spot) I awoke a began to prepare for the big day.

I shampooed. I rinsed. I conditioned. I got out of the shower and realized there was still a shit ton of conditioner in my hair. I got back in the shower. Re-washed. Re-rinsed. Started over.

After a little primping assistance from my cousin – I was ready. We headed to the train station, stopping off first for a latte at this cute little coffee shoppe. Yeah, I said ‘shoppe’. And headed to the platform to catch my train.

Could I be any more cosmopolitan?

After a brief goodbye and good luck, I boarded what looked like a stock car on a train bound for Newark and searched for a seat without a cigarette butt on it. Where were the plush train car seats and private dining areas I envisioned? What were these… benches? Oh God.

I finally found a suitable bench on which to prepare for the biggest moment of my career thus far. I put my purse down and slid into the row and slowly, but very effectively spilled my latte down the front of my dress.

F.

So I did what any professional career woman would do – I texted my mom.

Of course she couldn’t be of much help, she suggested buttoning my jacket (Ugh, Mom. That would TOTALLY ruin the look) or buying a stain stick when I arrived in The City. I opted for option number two, once our train pulled into Grand Central Station and very quickly realized that Tide stain sticks do little more than increase the circumference of any household stain.

By this time, I only had an hour before my meeting and I figured my best bet would be to run to the hippest store I could find and beg the most fabulous salesman on staff to take pity on me. Surely we would have time to throw together a quick fashion montage before I had to be in Times Square! It would be SO Mindy Kaling of me.

What I was not banking on, however, was the fact that absolutely no one in New York City gave a shit about me and certainly did not want to waste a moment of their time hearing about how I spilled my coffee on the train.

It was a latte people. I’m not a hobo.

At this point, I decided to bite the bullet and button up my blazer. Which was probably a good decision because now, it was starting to rain. I stepped into an alley to take off the gorgeous nude heels I was wearing and throw on some sweet Old Navy flip flops that I found at the bottom of my bag. After thanking the gods of giant purses, I began flip-flopping my way through Times Square. Like any self-respecting New Yorker, I was flopping around with my iPhone map App open, attempting to find the Glamour building before my hair was a compete frizz-ball and my non-waterproof mascara started running down my cheeks.

Finally, I made it. I was there. My dream was about to become a reality. Surely I would meet this editor, we would click, and she would have a contract drawn up straight away to hire me on staff.

I was given a visitor’s pass from the truly unfriendly security guard at the front desk and stepped onto the elevator and headed for the employee dining area. Editor wanted to grab a quick bite while we were meeting.

The meeting went great. Editor loved a few of my ideas and the essay I had written that sparked her initial interest in our meeting. She gave me a few notes for my stories and ideas, suggested I draw up a pitch and we’d go ahead and more forward with my piece!

It was like God himself had opened up the clouds and sent a multitude of heavenly host to carry me back to Grand Central. I was finally going to be a real writer. My essay was going to be in Glamour Magazine and I was going to win at life.

When I finally made it home after several grueling hours of travel, I set to work on putting together the email for my official pitch. It was perfect. I read and reread and proofread at least 25 times before I hit send.

And I never, ever heard from Glamour Magazine again.

 

Please leave a comment either blasting Glamour magazine, or boosting my ego. Thanks in advance.

 

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