The Devil Wears Prada—you know the story.
First came the 2003 novel courtesy Lauren Weisberger, inspired by her stint working as a personal assistant to Anna Wintour, the editor of Vogue.
Next came the 2006 film and its all-star cast: Meryl Streep (Miranda Priestly), Anne Hathaway (Andy Sachs), Emily Blunt (Emily Charlton), and Stanley Tucci (Nigel Kipling).
And then, in 2026, appeared the sequel, sporting the same quartet and dominating the box office in the same way.
But what you don’t know is the impact this fiction has had on yours truly.
The story began in March 2020, just as most of the world was dealing with a viral pandemic.
I, on the other hand, was grappling with the decision of a lifetime—should I accept the role as personal assistant to the editor of ComposeMD?
His reputation preceded him, and I don’t mean that in a flattering way. But like Andy Sachs, I viewed the role as a stepping stone to something greater—like, say, a writer for ComposeMD.
Several months and one COVID vaccine later, I took the job.
And that’s when the demands began.
They started with the lunch requests.
Two bean burritos from Taco Bell—and it had to be the one on Jefferson Road in Henrietta.
That, of course, was just the appetizer. From there, I had to drive to Naan-Tastic to secure the all-important samosa chaat.
And then came the miracle—getting it to him still crunchy. I’ll never forget the time the outside of one samosa had lost its crisp. It was back to Jefferson Road for another order, this time with a side of waffle fries from Chick-fil-A just to spite me.
But the food, as you might imagine, paled in comparison to the fashion.
They say The Devil Wears Prada, but I’m pretty sure he wears Old Navy.
It was one thing to have to dress like the man—hoodies, sweatpants, and hideous T-shirts.
But to have to dress the man—that’s when I knew my days were limited.
The sweatshirts, needless to say, always had to be XXL. The pants—I never knew if they should go below the gut, above the gut, or on the gut.
And he always insisted on that dreadful yellow T-shirt, the one with E=MC².
Anyway, along the way, I was asked to accomplish the impossible, like the time he asked for an advance copy of some Rust Belt Employment PDF to read to his kids at bedtime. Or the time he had me cancel an entire school band concert because he wanted to go to happy hour at the Distillery instead.
My thanks for those wins was a trip to Fashion Week in Batavia—he threatened to blacklist me from Batavia Downs if I didn’t attend.
Finally, one morning after months of abuse, when I saw his incoming call, I tossed my phone into the Erie Canal.
When I landed my next gig, my new boss told me that the editor of ComposeMD had said I was the biggest disappointment he ever had—and that my new boss would be an idiot not to order the samosa chaat.
