mom always caught me prancing around, behind mirrors, peeling off shirts and alternating them, hiking up new skirts and laying out pairs of shoes and belts. she'd always say then, "we're only going ____. it's not a fashion show, who're you dressing up for?" the front-row seaters are the people at the bus stop; the soil is the runway; the street photographers are my very own papparazzi. join me, won't you?