More from the Conde Nast elevator: "While I'll admit it did get me all a-flutter at the time, it did not quite occur to me that an uneventful elevator ride with Anna was Gawker worthy news, but I suppose, times being what they are... A week or two ago, stumbling into 4 X^2 (I swear, I didn't make that up, it was in the orientation video) about half past nine, my blurry vision suddenly snapped into focus on the pair of big, dark sunglasses on the small, immaculately dressed woman in the center of the elevator lobby. As if to solidify my fast jelling fears, she removed her glasses and said 'Hello, dah-ling' to a well dressed middle aged gentleman walking into the lobby behind me. Before I could beat a hasty retreat, the elevator light right next to us flashed green, and it was time to enter what I feared was the marble lined coffin of my career. Quickly, I remembed that a) my position is roughly 4,384 degrees of seperation from Ms. Wintour, org chart wise, b) my relatively decent overcoat would mask whatever other fasion faux pas I happened to be sporting, and c) I'm a guy and what the fuck am I doing being such a pussy?

So, I stepped aside, allowing her Anna-ness to enter before me (again, valuable
lessons from the orientation video), following her in and ending up shoulder to shoulder at the back of the elevator. From this vantage, I had prime seats for the real comedy of the event, which was watching everyone else file onto the elevator. To see the look in an aspiring young editorial assistant's eyes transform instantly from hope to terror as she scans the elevator for anyone she knows only to find the arresting visage of The Editrix (by day, a not so unassuming fashion editor...) is to know vapidity."