A few weekends later, my mom and I stood on a two-block-long line in front of an NYC hotel. Waiting to audition, packed tightly in a crowd of curvy, thin, tall, petite, tan, pale, blond, brunette, and redheaded women, I tried to keep my eye on the prize. With my face makeup free — a suggestion from the casting notice — and in my best off-duty look — a black, long-sleeved t-shirt, jeans, and heels — I felt fate was on my side. I would march in there, strut my stuff, and soon become a star.
Unfortunately, something different was in the cards. Mere footsteps from entering the building — my bladder full, legs aching, stomach growling, and having heard "You look really young!" from everyone I met — a car backfired, sending the crowd into a mass panic (everyone assumed it was a gunshot or explosion). Between all the pushing and running, I was pinned against a wall and before I knew it, my mom was dragging me away, leaving my dream in the (literal) dust.