Free Box Girl by Lilibet Snellings Page B

restaurant. I thought booking the occasional commercial would be a great way to bring in some extra money. Little did I know that “booking the occasional commercial” is about as easy as “buying the winning Powerball ticket at your local 7-Eleven.” But by sneaking in the back door, I became a commercial actress, and the assistant who replaced me had to leave me messages spelling out five-digit street addresses for casting facilities in Burbank. I did, however, schedule my own bikini waxes.
    The only commercials I ever actually booked were for running- or fitness-related ads, and that’s because with all thisnewfound freelancer time on my hands, I was running many miles most days. That, and the fact that the other actresses interpreted “Come to the audition in running attire” to mean, “Show up smelling like cigarettes in yoga pants and flip-flops.” The art director for an Asics campaign said he knew he was going to book me as soon as I got out of my car.
    â€œYou had on running shoes,” he said. “And your hair was in a ponytail.”
    The bar was set pretty low.
    My success in the commercial realm has been modest at best, mortifying at worst. While I have made a fool out of myself in front of very good-looking strangers at more than one audition, one such experience will forever hold the title of Most Embarrassing Audition Ever.
    A friend of mine was producing an Old Navy commercial, so she asked me to come straight to the “callbacks.” Meaning, I jumped over a hundred girls and got to audition with only a handful of finalists. Because fitness commercials were the only ones I had ever come remotely close to booking, I assumed this was a callback for Old Navy’s fitness line. Thus, I interpreted the wardrobe instructions of “short shorts and a tank top” to mean “running shorts and a running tank top.”
    As soon as I walked into the casting facility, I knew something had gone horribly wrong. The other women were dressed in short denim cut-offs, heels, and slinky little tank tops. They were all models— real models—with long legs and thick, flowing hair, which had been curled into perfect ripples that spilled over their shoulders. They turned to look when I arrived. I stood at the entrance, my thin hair strung into a ponytail, my chest flattened into a sports bra, wearing shorts with built-in underwear. Standing there, I wondered if they’d notice if I just started walking backward out the door.
    Immediately, my producer-friend spotted me, and I was stuck. “No, you look great,” she said when I questioned myattire. “I live five minutes away,” I said. “I can go change.” She insisted that I looked perfect in what I had on. She was trying to be sweet. I really wish she hadn’t been.
    As I filled out my information in the waiting room, I plotted my attack: When I go into the audition room, I’ll make some joke about my outfit. I’ll make them laugh. It will all be fine . Moments later, a casting assistant came out and said the creative team was ready for us. Us? We had to all go in together? I should have just sprinted out the door. I was wearing running shoes. My friend grabbed my arm and said, “Let’s go, hot stuff.” At this point I was fairly certain she was just messing with me.
    Twelve of us marched in—them, statuesque in their stilettos, me, squatty in my tennis shoes—and took our positions, side-by-side, along a line of masking tape stuck to the floor. These women were standing in the most stunning positions, arrangements I would have never even thought of: chin up, shoulders back, chest forward, one sinewy arm resting gingerly on right hip, pelvis thrust forward, left foot pointed ever so slightly to the southwest. I looked to my right, then to my left: They were all doing it, in lock step, as if preparing to bring their knees to their chests in a Rockettes-style