Two-dozen models form a line along the mirrored wall in the dance studio. One-by-one, we walk the entire length of the room as Diondre, our walking specialist, shouts, "Butt out, shoulders back!" "Too much arms are gross!" "Keep it simple, keep it cute!"
The unfortunate girls who don't have clean heels teeter across the floor on their tiptoes like wobbly ballerinas.
When it's my turn, Diondre stops me mid-walk and shoves my pelvis out. "You need to lengthen your stride," he says. I continue walking and pretend that my crotch is magnetically attracted to the wall.
We walk for Diondre four times. Some of the girls are naturals, hitting their marks with ease, while others march like kindergarteners in their mothers' shoes. A male model slips in during the third go-round and Diondre is apathetic.
"Guys?" he says. "No one cares." The man escapes critique-free.
Once every girl's stride has been thoroughly analyzed, we're turned loose. As I pack up my camera, someone hands me a sheet of paper with a checklist of pre-show dos and don'ts. It looks pretty self-explanatory (arrive make-up free, no nail polish, wear clear deodorant), but one point makes me chuckle. Sixth item down, in all-capital letters: WEAR UNDERWEAR.