Walk of Shame

This weekend, I auditioned for Identities.
I didn’t get it.
To be fair, they haven’t told me yet. But I’m assuming that on Wednesday they’ll send me some sort of mailmerge informing that it was really competitive this year...and that a lot of people tried out… and that I should stop trying to add the producers on LinkedIn.
I only agreed to audition because I used to be obsessed with “America’s Next Top Model” and wanted to meet Tyra (I was under the false impression that she would be there). Plus, my mom had just told me that I should get out of my comfort zone and try new things—although, in retrospect, I think what she really meant by by “new things” is apply for a job.
So, on Friday night at 7 p.m., I show up in my snow boots and leggings. I’m hoping that the girdle-like effect of the spandex would hide all the grapes that I ate for dinner—an entire bag from Star Market (the diet of a model, I assume).
Emerson 105 is surprisingly empty. From the far end of the classroom, four girls yell directions like cops at a lineup. Producers, I assume, or HUPD’s gotten new uniforms. They do look fashionable, but that could be just because they’re far away and I’m not wearing my glasses.
After I check in, one girl takes my photo. I want to make sure that the shadows don’t give the appearance that I have a mustache, but she won’t let me see it. I’m going for a Lindsay Lohan-like mugshot.
The directions are simple. “You’re going to walk twice,” the blurry figure of executive producer Susannah L.R. Maybank ’15 instructs: Once to a slow song, once to a fast song, and then we strike a pose at the second row of seats. I watch as one guy, the only other auditioner, walks up and down the classroom in boots. I have to wear heels.
Putting them on is a little awkward, if only because I keep telling the girl who checked me in how bad my feet smell.
I’m not worried about walking in a straight line. I have my orthopedics heels, Clarks, which are about one inch high and padded. I bought them in the old women’s section of Macy’s. They were on sale.
The pose is what had worried me.
“You shouldn’t smile,” my friend informed me before the audition. “Try to look angry.”
The most I could manage was a middle finger.
“Don’t do that,” she said, “Try putting your hands on your hips.”
So I do that. At least, I think. Somehow I have no recollection of what happened, but after I walk up and down the classroom Susannah interrupts and tells me not to look at her.
“Everyone laughs when they look at us.” She says. “Look at the corner of the room.” I didn’t realize I had laughed. I hope I didn’t cackle.
I walk a second time.
I imagine each judge critiquing me on a Google Doc. Is she wearing yoga pants? Her stomach looks flat, but almost unnaturally so, like she’s wearing Spanx for old people? Yeah, a panty girdle. That’s what their called? Do you smell something foul? No, that’s not a mustache, those are just shadows.
I also heard rumors that if they are considering you they ask you to repeat the process.
But they ask nothing else of me, not even where I get my shoes. Instead, they say that they will let me know Wednesday. I laugh in the general direction of the corner of the room. I should have applied for a job.