I recently started a “job” (paid internship) in unfamiliar territory (an office, midtown). I’ve been a bit out of my element, but at least I’m not alone. Or so I thought.

Another intern started the same day I did. Just minutes after my own entrance, she strutted into the office in a pair of five-inch heels and an extremely flattering houndstooth-check dress--a vision of fashionable work attire. After our meet and greet, we were both stationed side-by-side at two computers.

“I am so hungry already,” she confided.

I laughed. This girl appears to enjoy food. This could be the start of something good.

“I saw this little Japanese place two blocks up,” she whispered. “I’m totally going to get a sushi today. I love sushi.”

“Yeah, I don’t really eat sushi,” I told her. Her eyes widened. “I’m allergic to seafood. Raw fish makes me blow up like a balloon.”

“Oh my God. I’m so sorry.”

She’s joking, right?

“Well,” I responded slowly, unsure of what to say. “It’s not like I know what I’m missing out on. So I don’t spend much time pining over the lack of fish in my life.”

“I just don’t know what I would do.”

“Somehow I get by.” This was getting more tiresome by the second.

“But don’t you feel, like, robbed?”

“Yes. At gunpoint.” Dead-pan delivery instantly killed the conversation.
At this point, I christened my fellow intern “Sushi Girl,” an appropriate name as she has continued to mention her favorite Japanese delicacy on a daily basis. Meanwhile, I feel like Sarah Palin attempting to describe her foreign policy experience to Katie Couric: "Uhhh...I mean, I live right next to a sushi place. And, you know, I watch people eating it all the time."

I have this need to justify myself--to prove my worth. Along with her clothes and her sympathy towards my dietary restrictions, Sushi Girl’s comments continue to make me feel like a bumpkin.

Sushi girl also already seems to know everyone. People walk by and say “hi” specifically to her. What does this make me? The other intern. Like that movie The Other Sister, except in this case nobody can tell that I’m socially handicapped. As I find myself so obviously “behind her” I can’t help but view this as a competition. Deep down, it’s hard not to wish Sushi Girl trips and falls during this social race, so I can cross her like a wheelchair ramp and move up to the next level of the office hierarchy. I might feel guilty about this mindset if I hadn’t started compiling a list of unintentionally offensive comments she’s thrown my way:

“Oh my God! My mom has a pair of heels exactly like that!”

“You belong to a gym? You don’t really look like you’re the ‘working-out’ type.”

“Wow. That bag is so...practical.”

“Oh em gee! You eat bagels! It’s so great that you feel confident enough to have so many carbs.”

“You’re single, right?”

After recounting these woes to a friend who doesn’t mince words, she told me to “buck up” and “get a life.” After all, with the Second Great Depression descending upon us, better to see the big picture and be grateful for the job--excuse me--the paid internship. And yet, I can’t help but be consumed by the personal details of my daily life--the latest being my allergy to Sushi Girl’s personality. Raw honestly served with a well-done appearance is just too hard to swallow.