Earlier this month, a friend of mine urgently texted me: “You do tai chi, right? A director is filming a movie in Stockbridge and she needs people to do tai chi at a cemetery. I recommended you.”

Now, I do not, in fact, do tai chi, but I get this a lot because I’m a certified yoga instructor, and to many people, the two forms look kinda similar, if you squint really hard. And never mind that the tai chi was happening in a location traditionally associated with resting, of the permanent variety, rather than exercise. One of the best parts of being a freelance writer is that I get to make my own schedule, and that means taking half a day off when I feel like it to do semi-frivolous things, like be a movie extra.

So I accepted, and got in touch with the production assistant. It turned out they no longer needed a tai chi-er (I’m not sure if the scene was cut or reconfigured, or they simply had enough Zen-looking folks for the original), but would I be interested being in a group of people “doing high kicks and weird leg exercises”? I had no idea what constituted “weird leg exercises,” but I can kick like a Rockette, so, once again, I was in.

The next day, the production assistant e-mailed me again. “How about jogging or some vigorous exercise? Or being in a street scene with a bunch of healthy, happy looking people laughing, hugging, and generally being loving while drinking green smoothies?” I put the kibosh on the running; I work out five days a week, please and thank you, but I would for-sure not be interested in doing it in front of a large audience. So I agreed to be a smoothie-sipping street extra.

The day of, I slapped on some light makeup (this will live on in digital video forever, I reminded myself, even if I’m way in the distance) and, as instructed, picked out colorful summer clothes. Then I headed down to Main Street in Great Barrington, site of the filming.

After signing the requisite movie-extra releases, I was given the run-down by a trio of energetic young production assistants. The scenes being filmed took place inside a car, with the camera focused on the driver. All of us extras would be the stuff you see outside in the background, while the car drives down the street.

They’d be filming the jogging scene first, so I’d need to sit tight for a bit. By the time filming started, I’d already been there for about 30 minutes, and waited another 30 or so for the first scene to be completed. At one point, when they turned the car around to film from the other direction, one of the assistants ushered me and my scene partner, chop-chop, into an alley, so we wouldn’t appear in two different locations.

Finally, it was time for my big moment. The car carrying the director pulled up to the corner, and my scene partner, an adorable thirtyish guy, and I were asked to come to the window so the director could have a look at us. She seemed delighted by the guy (and how could you not be? Just look at that smile). When he stepped aside to reveal me, I saw her expression visibly falter a bit. It’s possible she was just tired from a long day of filming, but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t bother me. For a moment, it pressed into the metaphorical bruise that most American women, evaluated every time they step out in public, carry with them their entire lives. Did she think I was too old? Not thin enough? Not pretty enough?

Here’s the thing: as an extra, I’m basically a moving mannequin. Sure, if you’re actually looking in my direction, you might notice fair skin and dark hair, or a shirt in an unusual shade of blue. But from 15 feet away in a moving car, there’s no chance of picking up on wrinkles, the sun spot at the base of my left hand, or those gray roots that always seem sprout right in the part at the front of my hair before they show up anywhere else. So I stood up straight and smiled, and when the director instructed my scene partner and me to pretend to be a loving couple who also loves green smoothies, I slung my arm around him and gave some pretty convincing googly eyes while sipping demurely through a straw.

(About that smoothie: it was a horrendous concoction blended for its near-neon ability to pop against a shirt rather than actual palatability. The flavor was reminiscent of liquefied celery with a hint of unwashed kale. Based on my ability to maintain an expression of joy while drinking it, I believe the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences needs to create an Oscar category for Best Extra, and I should be the sole nominee this year.)

My new “boyfriend” and I were then escorted to a spot down the street, where we would pretend to take a moment to canoodle outside our car while giving our plastic cups a celebratory bump. Why we were both having a romantic moment and toasting green smoothies was never explained to me. At this point, we’d been waiting close to 90 minutes for our scene, and I was already mentally calculating how late I’d get home if I stopped at the ice cream shop down the street after filming, so I declined to ask. You want smoothie-crazed lovebirds? You got it, sista!

The actual filming of our scene lasted about 10 minutes, during which we did two takes. Then the production assistant declared the director had texted her to say we were perfect and she didn’t need anything further. Pretend Boyfriend and I said a pleasant good-bye to each other and our production chaperone, and walked off to our next adventure, slipping our smoothies into the trash along the way.

Being something of a skeptic—and also knowing that scenes are often shot multiple times for movies—I still wonder if the director didn’t like how the background looked while she was filming and decided to replace it with something else. Or if the idea of pairing me with an adorable guy who’s at least 15 years younger was just too much of a stretch, even for a place like Hollywood, with its regular fetus–leading man pairings.

In any case, what I learned from the experience is this: movie sets are dreadfully dull places, where you wait around for a long time before being asked to do something that makes little, if any, sense. And as a movie extra, you’ll most likely have to subject yourself to a once-over that will probably make you feel a little (or maybe a lot) uncomfortable, and where you might have to say, do, or drink something pretty unsavory. But who knows? Maybe the director really will appreciate your understated genius. If that’s the case, I’ll update you next year when the movie comes out—and I win my historic Oscar.