Nearly-Naked or Bust

That time I shot a commercial almost naked.

This lady is about to take off this robe.

I stood in the middle of a state park, dressed only in a green, silky, very short bathrobe. Underneath the robe, I wore nude-colored underwear and a tiny strapless bra. That was it. Oh wait, I was also wearing sneakers. As if sneakers might help me feel comfortable in this scenario. Unlikely given the fact that at any moment, the director was going to ask me to take the robe off and jump around like I was playing a sport.

What had I done?

A quick recap about why this is a major mother f#cking big deal. Since my 20’s, I’ve gained and lost a significant amount of weight. It’s like a yo-yo game that I don’t enjoy, yet keep playing. I gave birth to two kids, who decided to do as much damage to my midsection as possible. And I don’t love my body the way that mental health TikTokers tell me I should. What can I say? I’m working on it.

Now you’re caught up.

So I got a commercial audition. This was an in-person audition, my first B.C (Before COVID.) The attire was listed as a “bathing suit.” I was already on edge.

As I said, I’m working on it. I knew I needed to muster up my courage, so I wouldn’t get into my head about the fluorescent lights or the 20-something manning the camera. I planned to show up, do my best, then go straight home and pour myself a drank. A big one. In emotional preparation, I journaled thoughts like, “Well…I guess I like my calves.” After that, I ran out of ideas for how to love my body by Tuesday. 

I figured getting through the audition was a win in and of itself. I didn’t give two craps if I booked the commercial, so, of course, I booked it. 

That’s when the panicky feelings began welling up inside me. Holy mother of God. I am going to be in a bra and underwear jumping around like an idiot in front of a crew. This thing is going to be on television, and if it turns out to be anything like that Guns n Roses Capital One commercial, I am doomed.

I started talking to myself as if I was a tiny baby that I was coaxing to eat mushed-up carrots. 

“It’s okay, Robin. You can do this. Just break it down into small, manageable parts.”

I focused on the fitting. How long could it take? There’s not a lot of clothes. I arrived early because even for a job that makes me want to vomit, my dad’s voice rings inside my head. “If you’re not 15 minutes early, you’re late!” The wardrobe lady handed me the tiniest-bra-known-to-man and some nude-colored underwear. “Why don’t you head into the bathroom to try these on.”

I gulped and took the little bit of clothing into the bathroom to change. The underwear was high-waisted. I thanked the Universe for that. My girls were sitting high in the tiniest-bra-known-to-man, as if they were perched on a ledge. I knew they’d be coming out and making friends on the shoot. The wardrobe lady assured me that silicone nipple covers would take care of everything. 

“Would they? Would they?!” I screamed (inside my head.)

Next came the photo for client and producer approval. The wardrobe lady and I were both uncomfortable, doing a dance around when I should take the robe off so she could snap the pictures. I partially opened and closed my bathrobe. “Oh. Uh. Off now? Or uh...close it? Wait, take it off?” I disrobed and I stood very still, trying to smile. I was standing in front of a white wall, and since my stomach has never seen the light of day, it was either fading into the background or blinding the receptionist who was working on a Mac four feet from where I stood, nearly nude. Oh, did I not mention the fitting was in an open-plan office in Manhattan filled with regular folks walking around doing accounting and shit? 

Help me.

Approval granted, I headed home, knowing the next day would be the moment of truth. 

The shoot itself was a fever dream. I can’t go into too much detail since the commercial hasn’t come out yet, but I will say a couple of things. Hair and makeup consisted mainly of sunscreen on my bits and bobbles. There were nearly-naked extras everywhere causing confusing moments like me turning my head and thinking, “Whoa. That lady is naked!” Followed by me looking down and thinking, “Oh crap. I’m naked!”  There was more crew on set than I’d ever experienced. How many middle-aged white guys are needed to hold up lights? 

And, I learned a fuck-ton about myself. 

1. My financial bar for what I am willing to do is way lower than I thought it would be. For instance, if we were together and you asked me one of those parlor game questions, “How much money would it take for you to get nearly naked, jump around in front of a camera, and then we show it to millions of people?” I could have sworn my answer would be 100 grand. I was wrong. Really wrong.

2. I’m so unbelievably thankful for my pretend husband. At the moment when it became clear we had to disrobe, my pretend husband said, “Well. We’re in this together. Let’s have some fun.” That gave me the courage to take the robe off. But the moment that let me be free was when I was doing something in the foreground of the shot, and he was in the background, 100 percent bent over, ass in the air, swishing his hips side to side because it was funny. For no other reason. It made me laugh and it helped me go for it. 

3. While I may not love every bit of my body, the exercises I did in preparation for the shoot helped me see myself in a new light. I do like my calves, my quads, and my shoulder region. I’ll agree to disagree with my stomach. That’s gonna have to be good for now. I’ll keep working on it.

4. I can get out of my own way.

5. I can do anything.

6. My body did a pretty good job, and I’m quite proud of her. 

I’m pretty sure I’ll be learning from this experience for years to come. Especially, since somewhere around lunch my pretend husband and I realized that in a few months or maybe weeks, this thing is going to be edited, and it will be on TV sets in not just my house, but yours too. 

I’m bracing for it.