One Door Shuts…Another One Slams in Your Face?

(Wait — that’s not how the age-old saying goes? Just keeping you on toes! I kid, but in honor of my final week as a New Yorker, I thought a post about another chapter of my life ending was entirely relevant.)

Yesterday was my last day toiling away in the office of Lucky magazine right smack in the middle of Times Square, my least favorite place on Earth. I didn’t think I’d be that sad, seeing as a) fashion isn’t exactly my calling and b) research is hardly the most glamorous job on the masthead – but it was a bittersweet ending nonetheless. I’m fully ready to take the freelancing (from home, because in theory, I’ve always been an in-house permalancer. Staff jobs? Not me!) by the horns and wrestle it to the ground, until I’m sitting on top of the proverbial bull with one fist raised over my head in a victorious salute to conquering all my pitching and writing foes.

Regardless, my pending excitement didn’t make it one bit easier to absorb that yesterday would be the last time Ryan peered over the median dividing our cubes and ask where we were going to lunch today (the answer’s almost always Zest, and tack on their chipotle chicken panini to Things I’ll Be Back for in the Near Future), or the final morning Rebecca would regale us with tales of how “the fat bitch” at her comedy show the night before chased her across the club, grasping for clumps of hair and attempting to kick Rebecca’s petite a$$, but never quite succeeding. The routine 3:53pm earthquakes in the cafeteria, in which R, R and I loiter by the dessert table just before the doors shut at 4, haphazardly crushing cookies when the employees aren’t looking (“No one’s going to buy a broken cookie!” Rebecca maintains) and inhaling the victims (the cookies, not the employees).

The end to Faye bringing over luxury goods because she’s such a giver and gets an insane amount of awesome stuff sent to her by publicists (thanks for the bumble and bumble send-off, Faye Peggy! My hair is extra thick and shiny today!); no more recapping Lost or the 732 reality shows we have in common with my lovely boss Susan (sister to the equally-as-lovely Laura Linney, who is up for her third Oscar later this month! Keep all digits crossed for her!). Regular sightings of Chadner and Ali, my favorite bright-eyed assistants who have yet to be tainted by the industry and are always more than willing to take a break for a quick gossip sesh. No more bitching and moaning with Dian in the art department about how we can’t possibly illustrate and plot 16 maps in the allotted four days. And the free table, oh how I’ll miss your daily offerings of Crumbs cupcakes and Dior products. After getting every single bottle of nail polish and fragment of make-up for free over the past couple years, I’m going to have to revert back to — gasp! – buying my own. Guess it’s back to Walgreen’s beauty aisle for this self-employed gal. Bye, bye, Sephora; you’ve been a good friend to me!

What’s even weirder is that I was at Lucky FOR AN ENTIRE YEAR. Those of you who have been stuck behind the desk of the same ole, boring finance job for much of your life (oh wait, that’s none of you? I’m beginning to confuse my demographic!) would probably laugh in my face, but as a mover and shaker, I tend to flit around as often Britney and the L-Lo play musical chairs with rehab centers. I didn’t actually mean to stay a full year, as I revealed to all my coworkers in my farewell e-mail, but Ryan was the research chief at the time and so darn charming that my two weeks turned into 52. That’s not to say I was present in the office all 52, oh heavens no. Those of you who know me well likely recall that I abide by the philosophy that I’m owed a week’s vacation every month, at the very least. It varied – some months I’d be gone for none; others it was a solid two or three. But still, a full year of stability – if that’s what you call it – and seeing the same people (almost) every day makes it that much harder to leave. At least I know I’ll be back, and my Conde Nast ID has yet to be confiscated so who knows when I might pop up next. It could kind of be like a 3D-version of Where’s Waldo? – only I don’t do red and white, and horizontal stripes make objects in the mirror appear much wider than they really are.

On my last day at work, I went a little camera happy. I felt a bit like Jimmy Stewart in It’s a Wonderful Life (“Merry Christmas, you wonderful old Building and Loan!”), wanting to hug “The Runway” (the space age-y cafeteria on the 4th floor) and document every last moment of delirium. Unfortunately, my 15-minute high was interrupted during aforementioned cookie run, when the manager of the whole cafeteria (or “cafe” as she inaccurately referred to it) was giving a session and told me photos are not allowed. I’ve never been one to follow rules. Below is a photographic tribute to my year at the dazzling Times Square Conde Nast establishment. There are some random videos thrown in there, as well; it was a compulsive film, don’t be expecting the next Oscar contender. Sincere apologies for the Blair Witch-like effect.

Photo of the outside of the Conde Nast building (borrowed from glasssteelandstone.com, because stupidly enough, this was the one thing I forgot to take a picture of), on 42nd St. and Broadway.

I think it’s fitting that this reads “ucky,” which is exactly how I felt leaving – if that were indeed a word.

Ryan and Rebecca gave me an artfully-crafted collage as a parting gift.

Rebecca’s a stand-up comedian, so I never knew what kind of morning greeting awaited me.

The 4th floor cafeteria – affectionately dubbed “The Runway” – where you would find me most days during the one o’clock hour.

It’s like working in a Fun House. Only replace clowns with scary couture-clad, skinny bitches from the Fashion Closet.