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WE ARE WHAT WE EAT ! Next she noticed the bowls of fresh fruit and translucent cylinders filled with nuts, seeds and granola that sat on the counter.
    “It means we never have to leave.” Ashley snuck behind her without making a sound, like the ghost-faced children in Japanese horror movies. After making herself known, she bounced eagerly around Imogen in a pair of black leather leggings that hugged her lithe figure, and pointed to the chia pudding and Greek yogurt at eye-level in the glass-doored refrigerator next to eight different kinds of kombucha. “All of the healthy things are up here, but the good stuff is down here.” Ashley knelt on the floor and pulled open cabinets adjacent to the fridge to reveal Popchips, gummy candies, Snickers bars and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.
    “It’s positive psychology. You have to work for the stuff that makesyou fat so they keep it out of sight. Out of sight, out of mind. Eve modeled it on Google. We also just got a service that brings in breakfast each morning plus dinner at seven. On Tuesdays we get vegan tacos. Taco Tuesday!” The girl smiled at the alliteration. Imogen knew the days of the two-martini lunch had ended with the second Bush presidency, but the idea of eating every meal in the office seemed horrific.
    Back at her desk, Imogen typed “Glossy.com” into her Internet browser. Lists and quizzes dominated the right rail of the page. Imogen was intrigued by “5 Things You Must Buy at This Hermès Pop-up Store,” and less pleased about “Take This Quiz: What Shoe R U?” and “10 Ridiculously Hot Celebrities with Adorable Cats Wearing Fall Booties.” Splashed across the top half of the site was a carousel of rotating photos from a shoot Imogen had styled just before leaving for her surgery. It was sexy and provocative and looked almost as provocative on her screen as it did on the pages of her magazine. Small tabs at the bottom of the screen told her that 12,315 people had liked the photograph and 5,535 shoppers had bought something featured in the shoot. She clicked on an indelicate pair of Wolford tights and was presented with the original pair, retailing for just under $100. As she scrolled down the price decreased, all the way to a $2.99 pair of sheer black L’eggs.
    —
    Surprisingly, quickly, it was five p.m. and Imogen was happy the snack food was there. She was starving and actually felt uncomfortable asking Ashley to order her something.
    The company had issued her a new laptop and she had no idea how it worked. In the past her assistants had printed most of her emails. Ashley came in to try to show her the basics of cloud computing. After ten years of having the exact same system in place,
Glossy
employees no longer saved anything on their actual computers.
    “This way you can work on anything from anywhere,” Ashley explained, carefully going through everything Imogen needed to know with the patience of a kindergarten teacher.
    There were four different passwords to get through what Ashleydescribed as four different “firewalls.” Imogen wrote them in her notebook.
    “You should probably memorize them,” Ashley said. “Eve is bonkers about security.”
    Why did Imogen have to learn any of this? That is exactly what assistants were for. Right? All of this felt like a giant waste of her time. She should be thinking big picture, not staring at a bloody screen all day. She couldn’t wrap her head around the new, allegedly “intuitive” database that existed only on the Internet. She kept saving things only to have them disappear into the ether of the web. Each click brought an error message and a sense of frustration.
    God, this was infantilizing. “Okay. I’ve got it,” Imogen said and clicked on one of the file folders. “No, wait. I don’t have it.”
    “It takes some getting used to,” Ashley said sympathetically. “We can try again tomorrow.”
    Imogen reached out to grab the girl’s arm. “One more thing. Help me set up my