But Enough About Me by Jancee Dunn

hastily wiped off, and three girls who were barely out of their teens were lounging in jeans and chomping bags of Cool Ranch Doritos and Cheetos with such enthusiasm that the air around them twinkled with orange dust. The disparity between the sophisticated ladies onstage and these clean-scrubbed girls was surreal. For the rest of the day, we had a g-rated slumber party, as they goaded each other into laughing fits. I helped myself to some Cheetos as we compared pedicures and talked about dating. (At the time, they were single, so they earnestly discussed the self-help books they were reading in order to meet the right man, such as Knight in Shining Armor: Discovering Your Lifelong Love. ) Even though they were blindingly famous, it was all reassuringly familiar territory. A gathering of girls: That, I can do.
    We moved on to the topic of cellulite, and then zits. Beyoncé mentioned that she had recently counted the blemishes on her face, and got up tothirty-five. No matter what the topic, they frequently invoked the Lord, holding up a testifying hand when they did so.
    Of course, I did, too.
    â€œGod has a plan,” said Beyoncé. “And God is in control of everything.”
    â€œYes, He does,” said I. “Yes, He is.” At that particular point, the Creator had every right to strike me down right on that tour bus, because I had not been to church in years. That didn’t stop me from chiming in, of course. I was able to remember Bible passages because my folks used to frog-march us kids to church on Sunday, and for years, I sang hymns in Bible day camp, so as the day wore on, I threw in any allusion to the Lord that I could.
    At one point, Kelly said that as long as they didn’t take their eyes off of God, they would be fine. I nodded in solemn agreement. “Amen,” I said. Can I get a witness! I loathed myself. Why did I have to go that extra unctuous mile?
    â€œHe will make straight and true your paths,” I added.

6.
    The second I stepped through the doors of Rolling Stone as a real employee, I wanted to shake off my old personality like the rigid husk of a cicada. But how could I cultivate a new, hip persona when I lived with my parents in a New Jersey suburb and wore black leggings as pants?
    â€œYou should pack a lunch,” suggested my mother on the first few gut-churning mornings before work. “It would save a little money.”
    â€œWhich you’ll need to do,” said my father, “because your mother and I have decided that you’re going to have to pay rent around here. Fifty bucks a month, and you can pay for dinner from time to time. Nothing wrong with picking up a pizza.” My folks could pinch a penny until it bruised. These are people who would water down shampoo so intently that as greasy teens, we pretty much manufactured our own styling wax on our heads.
    I was too nervous to fight them. “I’m not packing a lunch,” I said. “I want to order it, like everyone else does.” This was alarmingly similar to a long-ago struggle: my wish for a Planet of the Apes lunch box versus my mom’s insistence on a bag lunch. Maybe it was time to start thinking of an apartment, although on my new wages of eighteen thousand a year, it might be difficult.
    During the first week of the job, I never questioned why I was hired, just in case it might have been some sort of clerical error. Years later, I quizzedBob. As it turns out, we had a lot in common. For all of his urbane veneer, Bob was a scrappy Irish guy from Long Island, the son of an FDNY fireman, who went to SUNY and spent his first three post-college years toiling at a trade magazine for industrial chemicals. But at the time, I gathered that the magazine liked their staffers laid-back and personable, yet highly motivated, which, Lord knows, I was. As an editorial assistant, I eagerly filed documents, transcribed editors’ interviews, and—best of all—answered the