If Ever(2)

"The producers were on the fence about having a non celebrity on the show, but when film star Mallory Becker dropped out, they decided to go ahead and have an unknown step in."

I realize that Mallory would have been his partner. That explains his less than stellar attitude. "Sorry you got stuck with me."

"Last minute changes happen all the time," he says tapping a message on his phone.

Not sure how else to apologize for ruining his season, I glance around the room, waiting for him to finish. There are some folding chairs and a small table with a sound system. One wall is windows overlooking the parking lot, the other wall is covered with mirrors. Otherwise, the room is bare.

Dominic finally tosses his phone into his bag. "All right. Our first dance is a samba. We're going to start basic moves, building off some of the things you learned yesterday."

I yank my ponytail tighter and wipe my sweaty palms on my shirt, hoping he won't notice. He instructs me on proper posture. Head up, shoulders back, frame tight, extend the leg.

We can't have been at it more than thirty minutes before I'm breathless and sweaty. The moves are simple, but we go over them dozens of times until he's satisfied they're perfect.

"I didn't realize how out of shape I am." Why couldn't I be one of those people who love a daily run, or don't feel complete without a trip to the gym twice a week?

Dominic is breathing normal, without a bead of sweat on his brow. "And we haven't really gotten started yet. Just wait, by premiere night, you'll be much stronger." He drills me more on what we've learned. "Strong arms, eyes here, hips tucked, point your toes, and for Pete's sake, smile."





Each day is the same, except the steps are more difficult and his attention to detail more strict. Dominic can be pretty gruff and my body is taking a beating. Still, it's a blast and I can't believe I'm here. It's a far cry from living out of my grandpa's car four years ago.

During my downtime, I search online for details about the other contestants while soaking my aching, blistered feet in Epsom salts, because that's the solution I found on Google. A few contestants I've never heard of, but they all have an impressive resume packed with experience on film & screen, the Billboard Top 100, or winning scoreboards.

Most of the women are polished to perfection with blinding smiles, flawless skin, and lush figures. The men have hollowed cheeks, chiseled jaws, and muscled bodies. Some have suffered multiple divorces, career flops, or rehab visits, hence, their willingness to rebuild their image on Celebrity Dance Off. The more I read, the more I realize the chances of me succeeding on this show are slimmer than a mouse surviving in a tank of hungry pythons.

Performance day dawns to a smoggy sky and my jumpy stomach churns with excitement and too much coffee. Following my highly-detailed schedule, I arrive at the sound stage at 7 a.m. I'm about to rub shoulders with the rich and famous. If only Mom could see me now. I glance at the sky above and smile.

A young guy with a clipboard and radio directs me to my trailer, but I get lost and have to go back for help. He walks me to the end of trailer city, which looks like a traffic jam of little white boxes. I'm in the furthest row from the sound stage and begin to sense a pattern to my status on the show. But it's fine. I'm lucky to be here at all.

Inside is a clean little space with a built-in beige couch, a small table, and a mini fridge. Nothing fancy, but it's private and quiet, and I soon learn a great place to hide.

Consulting my map, I venture off to find the makeup trailer in this maze of boxes. There are a few people meandering, but no one I recognize and no Dominic. The trailer ends up being close to the studio. Do I knock or barge right in? I'm not sure of the protocol and wish that guy with the clipboard would have stayed with me.

Cracking the door, I peek inside. There are six makeup chairs facing lighted mirrors and several women organizing masses of bottles, tubes and makeup brushes. A middle-aged woman spots me.

"Come on in."

I step gingerly into the small space.

"You must be Chelsea," she says going back to her task.

"How did you know?"

"You're early," she adds with a quick smile. "I'm Bev."

"Sorry, I can come back." I make a move for the door.

"Nonsense. Today's going to be chaos. It'll get better as the season goes on and people are cut." She waves at the far chair. "Have a seat and Mary Kay will take care of you."

I nod and smile at a short gal with long red hair and freckled skin. She looks barely out of high school and smiles back, seeming a little uncertain of herself. As she works on my face, erasing all my imperfections and giving me dramatic eyes complete with false eyelashes, contoured cheeks, and pale glossy lips, I learn this is her first gig in the industry, that she last worked at the Macy's MAC cosmetics counter.

"Sorry you drew the early call," she says as other girls straggle in, all young, reed thin, and gorgeous. I hope to spot Candace Capri, the famous singer, but it turns out these girls are in the dance troupe and a tight knit group as they giggle, gossip, and gulp their lattes.

Bev checks Mary Kay's work, suggests a few tweaks, and I'm pronounced ready, then off to the hair trailer for more of the same.

After an hour and a half of pulling, curling, and teasing, I leave looking glamorous, like I might actually fit in on stage. But now I stand out next to the various crew milling around in jeans and t-shirts all on their way somewhere important.