Become a Princess

In the past few months, I've applied for lots of jobs. Probably the most bizarre job hunt experience I've had occurred when I went to a casting call for Princesses at Disney World.

My reasoning was simple: if I can't find a real job, why not be a princess? I could see it...
"So I see you graduated in May. What have you been doing since then?"
"I'm Snow White at Disney World."
"That's sick. Hired."

They have open casting calls every other Thursday. The website was pretty cryptic as to what to expect. I got dressed in my best impression of princess casual. I wore a white bubble dress with big black polka dots and a black belt, navy blue ballet flats for a pop of color, and curled my hair. A real royal vibe if I do say so myself.

Anyway, I walked into a huge room with a ton of chicks and a few dudes sitting on benches lining the walls. I walked up to the check-in table, where they immediately made me take off my shoes to measure me.

"62. Remember that. Write it by your name."

62??? 62 inches? That's 5'2". To be a princess, you have to be between 5'3" and 5'7". Shorter than that, you can only be a fairy. A godforsaken fairy. I am 5'3"! Do you think I wouldn't know how tall I am?

So I'm having a silent panic attack as I'm writing my name on the clipboard. I think about writing 63. Who's gonna know? I see the woman who took my height mere feet from me, staring.

God damn it.

I get a sticker with my number in line, 121, on it and walk my midget-sized body across the room to find a seat.

I try to read my book, the sci-fi classic, "The Man Who Fell To Earth," but can't help but do some people watching. Apparently, many of the other princess-hopefuls did not interpret casual in the same way as me. There were girls in ratty t-shirts. Jean shorts. Sweatpants. Sneakers. Leggings as pants.

courtesy of www.styleatplay.com

The woman next to me fills me in on what's going down. She came to accompany her friend, who has already been called into the casting room. They called the first 50 people in at once.

When her gorgeous friend came out (looking pissed), she gave me the scoop. They brought 50 people in at a time and had them stand in lines. Then two Disney staffers stared at them line by line for a good fifteen minutes. They called three numbers to stay, everybody else sayonara.

Wow. At this point, I'm not really too worried about the whole thing. Just 3 out of 50? Pressure is totally off. The losers are the reigning majority.

When it was finally my turn, I found it was just like the girl said but undeniably Disney-fied. While they scrutinized our faces, they smiled and bopped to "High School Musical 3." I was standing next to a handsome, flamboyant boy that I suspect saw himself as the next Prince Eric. He seemed the most comfortable with being viewed as a piece of meat, smiling and grooving and whispering witty comments to me.

They only picked three people, Prince Eric and I excluded. The rest of us left, all wondering what the next stage of the casting even included...

Prince Eric and I were parked next to each other. We gave one another a parting glance, as if saying, "Buck up, baby. You're still a princess."

Damn right.

Me last Halloween. Poser princess that I am.