It’s been my great honour to watch a dear friend, and former student, finish her honours thesis this week. Those of you who have been there, done that, will know that an achievement this monumental deserves a Star Wars analogy: this week, a Padawan has become a Jedi.
(If the above references went over your head, your homework for this weekend is to watch Star Wars in its entirety. Use the Force to get you through the tedious prequels, and enjoy Harrison Ford circa the 70s).
Obi-Wan-Kenobi style, I’ve taken it upon myself to give my friend unsolicited advice through her honours year – for which I hope to be forgiven eventually. The most important piece of advice I have given her, though, is this: she needs to buy a significant piece of jewellery, for herself, to celebrate her achievements.
Bizzare, I know, that this advice takes precedence over all the other pieces of end-of-thesis advice I could give to a newly minted Jedi. Surely, I should advise her to sleep. To catch up with mates she hasn’t seen in an age. To symbolically burn a copy of her manuscript. To run. To go to the beach. To laugh until she can’t breathe anymore (although I have complete faith that she’s done this last one).
The reason behind my advice, though, is that something as big as finishing an honours thesis (or a Masters, or a PhD) is that it’s a long, hard journey, ultimately completed alone. While there are people beside you, people advising you, people without whom you couldn’t do it, it ultimately comes down to you, and your words (in Star Wars terms? You and the Force).
Which is why, in my view, you need to mark an achievement like finishing a thesis, and mark it well. Most importantly, you need to mark it for yourself.
It’s not enough to accept the congratulations of colleagues, friends and family. It’s not enough to know that you’ve done an amazing thing. You need to distil that amazing thing you’ve done into a symbol, something that will always and forevermore remind you that, yes, you did it.
And why jewellery, specifically? Well, let’s take a moment to think about what ‘big’ (expensive, thought-through, valuable) jewellery means in the course of a woman’s life. Typically, the ‘big’ pieces she has are given to her by others: by her parents on her 21st; by her partner to signify their engagement, and, again, on an important anniversary or birth of a child; by her children on a milestone birthday; or inherited from a family member.
What you notice, here, is that all of the ‘big’ pieces come from without – they are gifts. Whenever she wears them, she thinks of the people who gave them to her, which is what makes those ‘big’ pieces special and meaningful.
And, while it’s great to have pieces that make you think of your nearest and dearest, there’s a time and a place for jewellery that makes you think of you, and all you’ve achieved.
The first Sex and the City film explored this concept (mixing pop culture references: bear with). Samantha attends a charity auction to buy, for herself, a very expensive, very large, and, let's be honest, very ugly, ring. An anonymous bidder goes up against Samantha in the auction, driving the price higher than Samantha can afford. Miserably, she admits defeat. Later, Smith Jarrod, Samantha’s partner, presents her with the ring: Smith was the anonymous bidder, and bought the ring as a gift for Samantha.
Whenever Samantha looks at the ring, though, she sees only Smith, whereas she wanted to see herself – her achievements – whenever she looked down at it.
Now, I can appreciate why people may think that it’s selfish, or frivolous, to celebrate an achievement by spending money on something like jewellery rather than, for instance, an experience like travel, or something that benefits others. Perhaps it’s not for everyone, this whole bling thing.
All I know, though, is that whenever I put on my garnet ring, the ring I bought myself in the weeks after handing in my honours thesis, I am reminded that, yes, I did it. It’s made all the sweeter by the fact that it’s something I wear: there are patches where the soft gold has yielded to the movements of my hand; that it’s something I will, one day, be able to give to another young woman, in an ironic twist on the whole buying-jewellery-for-oneself exercise.
So, it’s with this in mind that I suggest a jewellery purchase to my dear friend, and to others who have, like her, become Jedis this week. Because not only did you have the potential (midochlorian readings off the charts), you used it and achieved something amazing, something that you should mark personally, enduringly, symbolically.
And that’s it, I’m through with my advice, and I’m hanging up my light sabre. Except for one final thing I can’t help but throw in:
May the force be with you.
Always.
Showing posts with label Milestones. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Milestones. Show all posts
Saturday, October 27, 2012
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Secrets and Lies
As it’s been almost a year since I started this wee blog, I thought it might be time to correct a few assumptions that you, readers, may have made about me. You could be forgiven for thinking, reading this blog, that I am impeccably stylish and pleased with what I wear most of the time, and that, being someone who blogs about style, I have no secrets.
How wrong you are, and how remiss of me not to tell you before now about my Top Ten Shameful Style Secrets and Lies…
Number Ten: I want to wear red lipstick every day, but don’t.
Number Nine: I wear track pants. Out of the house. Often out of the house. Often down to the shops to collect dinner ingredients. Often tracksuits with holes in dangerous places – the term crotchless being appropriate.
Number Eight: I stress out about wearing the same outfit to two tutorials in the same semester, least my students judge me as a poor postgraduate with no clothes.
Number Seven: I spend entire weeks wearing sarongs and pregnant-style tops in summer.
Number Six: I shop at target. Even when I have money.
Number Five: I envy girls who look amazing wearing jeans, uni sweaters, and ponytails.
Number Four: I myself wear jeans, uni sweaters, and ponytails, and do not look amazing.
Number Three: I don’t feel like myself without make up.
Number Two: I’m never happy with my hair. Ever.
And – drumroll please – the final, most hideous confession.
Number One: I wear crocs. ALL THE TIME.
P.S. you may have noticed some changes to the blog of late – I hope you like them as much as I do! Although it’s taken the best part of a year to work out the intricacies of Blogger, I think my inner luddite is suitably conquered. Love, Peg.
How wrong you are, and how remiss of me not to tell you before now about my Top Ten Shameful Style Secrets and Lies…
Number Ten: I want to wear red lipstick every day, but don’t.
Number Nine: I wear track pants. Out of the house. Often out of the house. Often down to the shops to collect dinner ingredients. Often tracksuits with holes in dangerous places – the term crotchless being appropriate.
Number Eight: I stress out about wearing the same outfit to two tutorials in the same semester, least my students judge me as a poor postgraduate with no clothes.
Number Seven: I spend entire weeks wearing sarongs and pregnant-style tops in summer.
Number Six: I shop at target. Even when I have money.
Number Five: I envy girls who look amazing wearing jeans, uni sweaters, and ponytails.
Number Four: I myself wear jeans, uni sweaters, and ponytails, and do not look amazing.
Number Three: I don’t feel like myself without make up.
Number Two: I’m never happy with my hair. Ever.
And – drumroll please – the final, most hideous confession.
Number One: I wear crocs. ALL THE TIME.
P.S. you may have noticed some changes to the blog of late – I hope you like them as much as I do! Although it’s taken the best part of a year to work out the intricacies of Blogger, I think my inner luddite is suitably conquered. Love, Peg.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Revere, Not Fear
This Thursday, ten am, I teach my first tutorial. This is a moment that, as many of you will no doubt know, I have been looking forward to for quite some time. So, understandably, my chief concern is:
WHAT TO WEAR????
A part of me….heck, no, actually all of me, loves wardrobe firsts. Scientists say that scent is the most evocative sense of all – and, as a fragrance devotee, I certainly don’t underestimate the significance of the olfactory. Perhaps I’m a few steps up the evolutionary ladder, however, because for me, the sartorial is the sense that is most evocative of a particular time, place and moment. Whether it’s first dates, first days of school or uni, or the first time I saw the Sex and the City movie, the outfit I wore is encoded with more sensory memories than anything else associated with the event. Indeed, no matter how hard I try, my navy silk Saba frock will always and forevermore be known in my head and in my heart as The Lifeguard Dress – but perhaps that’s a story for another time. Likewise, yellow and green ribbons always evoke my first day of kindergarten, just as black cardigans bring to mind my first day at uni and the lovely German exchange student who chivalrously returned it to me after I’d abandoned it in my haste to leave the lecture theatre and have a cry in the ladies from COMPLETE NERVOUS EXHAUSTION – again, story for another time. I think perhaps you are getting the idea though – for me, clothes are the defining sense-memory of important events in my life.
For this reason, I’m understandably a little bit hung up about what to wear this Thurs, as my first ever teaching gig will no doubt rank as a keynote day in my life. Professionally, it’s the first actual step down the actual path of what I actually want to do with my actual life in the actual world of actual work. Personally, it’s an important marker of growing up – that the university trusts me, perhaps erroneously, with the little kiddies because they think the munchkins might be able to do some good learning with me. Little old me! Shucks.
Also, as was pointed out to me during a training session last week, we’re in the front line, the trenches (I’m direct quoting, not elaborating), with the students, in the battlefield that is the Australian National University (the bit about the battlefield was an elaboration on my part but it’s nonetheless fitting to extend the metaphor, don’t you think?). According to our instructor, our role as intellectual capitalists, extracting the most brain labour out of the student masses (switching to Marxist metaphors now) means that tutors need to inspire FEAR in their students – not a lot, but enough to keep them one step ahead of a boot up the backside.
Pedagalogicaly, this whole fear thing doesn’t sit too well with me. Yes, I want my students to take me seriously and do as I ask, to get their essays in on time (HA) and to be interested and engaged in the course materials (HA. HAHA. HA). But I’m not necessarily comfortable with deliberately making them afraid of me. After all, as we are continually told, we are their first point of contact with the university – an institution that is scary and alienating enough as it is, never mind my pathetic attempts to instil fear in my students.
It was over a slightly burnt but nonetheless elegant supper (caramelized onion tart and salad) with MiMi Goss that we hit upon the strategy I will employ in my tutorials. Rather than getting the kids to FEAR me, I will instead be aiming to have them REVERE me. Aside from being a nice little rhyme, replacing the fear with revere fits much more nicely with my attitude to teaching. Instead of making the students scared of what I might do if they don’t comply with my direction, I shall instead compel them down the path of good behaviour, critical engagement with the literature, and punctual submission of essays with my own fabulousness as the primary motivator.
When I look back over my little life, it’s the teachers who I’ve wanted to be like, who I’ve admired, worshiped – whom I have revered - that I’ve learnt the most from. All I can remember about the teachers I was afraid of was that I was that I was afraid of them – not the knowledge that they imparted.
So, having worked out my preferred pedagological position from a veritable Karma Sutra of positional options, all that remains is to find the perfect outfit - the outfit that inspires reverence, rathe than fear, indifference, or, worst of all, giggles.
Trouble is, every person has a different take on what this outfit should be. MiMi suggests curve hugging glamour, with clever accessoriation: Sookie Compton and Tara Samson, my new housemates, suggests kooky colour and layers respectively, for reasons of approachability and practicality. Zsuzannah Verona thinks that black and neutrals are a bad idea, and give off an impression of being a part of the staid academy rather than someone forging a new path: Kitty Gilfeather, on the other hand, thinks that black and white with lots of interesting texture and great jewellery sends the message that I’m to be respected as well as liked.
So much good advice, from so many trusted sources, makes for one confused prospective tutor.
Thus, it is in the spirit of collaborative sharing of knowledge and insight that I open the question to you, dear reader. On this most important day in my life – what should I, and should I not, wear?
WHAT TO WEAR????
A part of me….heck, no, actually all of me, loves wardrobe firsts. Scientists say that scent is the most evocative sense of all – and, as a fragrance devotee, I certainly don’t underestimate the significance of the olfactory. Perhaps I’m a few steps up the evolutionary ladder, however, because for me, the sartorial is the sense that is most evocative of a particular time, place and moment. Whether it’s first dates, first days of school or uni, or the first time I saw the Sex and the City movie, the outfit I wore is encoded with more sensory memories than anything else associated with the event. Indeed, no matter how hard I try, my navy silk Saba frock will always and forevermore be known in my head and in my heart as The Lifeguard Dress – but perhaps that’s a story for another time. Likewise, yellow and green ribbons always evoke my first day of kindergarten, just as black cardigans bring to mind my first day at uni and the lovely German exchange student who chivalrously returned it to me after I’d abandoned it in my haste to leave the lecture theatre and have a cry in the ladies from COMPLETE NERVOUS EXHAUSTION – again, story for another time. I think perhaps you are getting the idea though – for me, clothes are the defining sense-memory of important events in my life.
For this reason, I’m understandably a little bit hung up about what to wear this Thurs, as my first ever teaching gig will no doubt rank as a keynote day in my life. Professionally, it’s the first actual step down the actual path of what I actually want to do with my actual life in the actual world of actual work. Personally, it’s an important marker of growing up – that the university trusts me, perhaps erroneously, with the little kiddies because they think the munchkins might be able to do some good learning with me. Little old me! Shucks.
Also, as was pointed out to me during a training session last week, we’re in the front line, the trenches (I’m direct quoting, not elaborating), with the students, in the battlefield that is the Australian National University (the bit about the battlefield was an elaboration on my part but it’s nonetheless fitting to extend the metaphor, don’t you think?). According to our instructor, our role as intellectual capitalists, extracting the most brain labour out of the student masses (switching to Marxist metaphors now) means that tutors need to inspire FEAR in their students – not a lot, but enough to keep them one step ahead of a boot up the backside.
Pedagalogicaly, this whole fear thing doesn’t sit too well with me. Yes, I want my students to take me seriously and do as I ask, to get their essays in on time (HA) and to be interested and engaged in the course materials (HA. HAHA. HA). But I’m not necessarily comfortable with deliberately making them afraid of me. After all, as we are continually told, we are their first point of contact with the university – an institution that is scary and alienating enough as it is, never mind my pathetic attempts to instil fear in my students.
It was over a slightly burnt but nonetheless elegant supper (caramelized onion tart and salad) with MiMi Goss that we hit upon the strategy I will employ in my tutorials. Rather than getting the kids to FEAR me, I will instead be aiming to have them REVERE me. Aside from being a nice little rhyme, replacing the fear with revere fits much more nicely with my attitude to teaching. Instead of making the students scared of what I might do if they don’t comply with my direction, I shall instead compel them down the path of good behaviour, critical engagement with the literature, and punctual submission of essays with my own fabulousness as the primary motivator.
When I look back over my little life, it’s the teachers who I’ve wanted to be like, who I’ve admired, worshiped – whom I have revered - that I’ve learnt the most from. All I can remember about the teachers I was afraid of was that I was that I was afraid of them – not the knowledge that they imparted.
So, having worked out my preferred pedagological position from a veritable Karma Sutra of positional options, all that remains is to find the perfect outfit - the outfit that inspires reverence, rathe than fear, indifference, or, worst of all, giggles.
Trouble is, every person has a different take on what this outfit should be. MiMi suggests curve hugging glamour, with clever accessoriation: Sookie Compton and Tara Samson, my new housemates, suggests kooky colour and layers respectively, for reasons of approachability and practicality. Zsuzannah Verona thinks that black and neutrals are a bad idea, and give off an impression of being a part of the staid academy rather than someone forging a new path: Kitty Gilfeather, on the other hand, thinks that black and white with lots of interesting texture and great jewellery sends the message that I’m to be respected as well as liked.
So much good advice, from so many trusted sources, makes for one confused prospective tutor.
Thus, it is in the spirit of collaborative sharing of knowledge and insight that I open the question to you, dear reader. On this most important day in my life – what should I, and should I not, wear?
Friday, March 27, 2009
LBD vs Let's Be Different
I have a confession to make.
Not only do I regularly go panty-less, I don't like little black dresses.
Let me tell you the story of me and the Little Black Dress. I bought my first LBD the week before my twenty first birthday. It is the archetypal little black cocktail dress - sleeveless, with wide set shoulder straps, a ‘v’ neckline, shaped waist and tulip skirt that finished just above the knee. Silk, no embellishments, on sale, perfect fit. I thought I'd found the fashion pot of (black) gold at the end of the rainbow. I anticipated that I would wear it constantly.
A funny thing happened, though, when I put it on before going out for dinner on my birthday. Rather than feel elegant, timeless and sophisticated - what I'd hoped to feel on my 21st - I felt flat. Uninspired. Boring. I tried in vain to jolly myself into the party mood, but couldn't. I simply didn't feel like me. Or, rather, I felt like me, but on mute.
I had a hunch this might have something to do with the dress. Everything else about the evening was perfect. In the interests of being a benevolent wardrobe dictator, however, I decided to give the dress a couple more chances to prove itself. Both times it failed miserably - again, I had that curious mute feeling I'd had at my birthday. Something was definitely amiss with that LBD. Months of puzzling over the problem of the LBD later, I came up with the reason why I never felt quite as fabulous as I normally do when wearing that LBD. Finally, it dawned on me and all the pieces fell into place.
As I said in my first post, writers write, sculptors sculpt, but as fashionistas, we wear our art. Being the ultimate fashion cliché, my LBD was blocking my ability to express myself clearly. Try and imagine how Iain McEwan would have felt if he ended 'Atonement' with something as trite as 'better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all'. Or Donna Tart's 'The Secret History' finished with the words 'boys will be boys'. I admit to taking some liberties here, but I can't imagine that Iain and Donna would feel particularly great about those words on the last page of their novels. In fact, I think they'd feel like they'd copped out - that they'd resorted to a cliché when they could have expected something more original, more creative, more fabulous, of themselves. That's exactly how I felt about the LBD - that I'd failed to express myself completely because I threw in the creative towel and resorted to the hackneyed and the cliché.
Like all great clichés, the LBD was initially a stroke of creative genius. When the LBD-bomb was first dropped by Coco Chanel in the 1920s, it was nothing short of a revolution. It 'freed' women from having to worry so much what to wear to the numerous social occasions a gal-about-town would be - and still is - expected to go to. An LBD, back when it was a fresh new concept, would have said a lot about the wearer; about how modern, how carefree, how liberated and devil-may-care she was.
The trouble with the LBD now, though, is that it's become a fallback position women adopt when they don't feel confident enough in their creativity, in their own look, to wear something truly fantastic and truly expressive of themselves. It's fashion's missionary. And because it's been so heavily promoted, and reincarnated in every decade since the 1920s, there are just so darn many of them around that to wear an LBD actually makes you pretty much a part of the fashion wallpaper. Dull, dreary, black wallpaper, that is.
This isn't to malign the black dress in general - indeed, I have a couple of other black dresses, both jersey, one clingy and the other floaty, which I love. In both cases, though, the black dresses I love have something a bit different going on - one of them is a print, the other has a daring and unique v-back construction. Both of them have something that sets them apart from the pack. My critique of the LBD is restricted to the heavily promoted 'classic' version - see the description of mine above, or the Portmans window next time you're in a shopping mall. It's the cliché of the black cocktail length dress in a plain fabric with minimal detailing that my vitriol is reserved for.
For me, the fatal flaw of the LBD concept, aside from being overused to the point of cliché, is the idea that a single dress can reflect how you feel at a cocktail party with your girlfriends, on a romantic date, at a work dinner or at a family wedding. All of those events, for me, have a different emotional tone – joy, excitement, loyalty and dread respectively. For all its supposed universality, the LBD doesn't resonate with all of these tones. Before defenders of the LBD will bring out the accessory defense - you can change the tone of the outfit with accessorisation - this in and of itself reflects a sad truth about the LBD: at its very best it's merely a blank canvas for fabulous accessories. Think about the LBD Audrey Hepburn wore in ‘Breakfast at Tiffany's’. Now take away the necklace and the cigarette holder. What have you got left? Not a whole lot of fabulous, that's for sure.
My clothes ought - no, need - to be more than blank canvases, just as a writer needs his or her words to be more than just text on a page. Whilst it's necessary to have some pieces in your wardrobe that whisper rather than shout ‘fabulous’ from the rooftops, I feel that the LBD doesn’t even belong in the category of whisperers. Every piece in your wardrobe - even if it's a workhorse item like jeans or a black vee neck - must be more than just a blank canvas, and must have something to say. Most of us don't have the money, or hanging space, for clothes that don't say anything at all, and can ill afford to surrender our individuality to clichés in an increasingly homogenized world.
Throwing down a gauntlet, I challenge you, dear reader, to abandon the LBD. Instead, Let's Be Different. To wrangle some ee cummings here, I'd rather learn from one bird how to sing than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance.
So Let's Be Different.
Not only do I regularly go panty-less, I don't like little black dresses.
Let me tell you the story of me and the Little Black Dress. I bought my first LBD the week before my twenty first birthday. It is the archetypal little black cocktail dress - sleeveless, with wide set shoulder straps, a ‘v’ neckline, shaped waist and tulip skirt that finished just above the knee. Silk, no embellishments, on sale, perfect fit. I thought I'd found the fashion pot of (black) gold at the end of the rainbow. I anticipated that I would wear it constantly.
A funny thing happened, though, when I put it on before going out for dinner on my birthday. Rather than feel elegant, timeless and sophisticated - what I'd hoped to feel on my 21st - I felt flat. Uninspired. Boring. I tried in vain to jolly myself into the party mood, but couldn't. I simply didn't feel like me. Or, rather, I felt like me, but on mute.
I had a hunch this might have something to do with the dress. Everything else about the evening was perfect. In the interests of being a benevolent wardrobe dictator, however, I decided to give the dress a couple more chances to prove itself. Both times it failed miserably - again, I had that curious mute feeling I'd had at my birthday. Something was definitely amiss with that LBD. Months of puzzling over the problem of the LBD later, I came up with the reason why I never felt quite as fabulous as I normally do when wearing that LBD. Finally, it dawned on me and all the pieces fell into place.
As I said in my first post, writers write, sculptors sculpt, but as fashionistas, we wear our art. Being the ultimate fashion cliché, my LBD was blocking my ability to express myself clearly. Try and imagine how Iain McEwan would have felt if he ended 'Atonement' with something as trite as 'better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all'. Or Donna Tart's 'The Secret History' finished with the words 'boys will be boys'. I admit to taking some liberties here, but I can't imagine that Iain and Donna would feel particularly great about those words on the last page of their novels. In fact, I think they'd feel like they'd copped out - that they'd resorted to a cliché when they could have expected something more original, more creative, more fabulous, of themselves. That's exactly how I felt about the LBD - that I'd failed to express myself completely because I threw in the creative towel and resorted to the hackneyed and the cliché.
Like all great clichés, the LBD was initially a stroke of creative genius. When the LBD-bomb was first dropped by Coco Chanel in the 1920s, it was nothing short of a revolution. It 'freed' women from having to worry so much what to wear to the numerous social occasions a gal-about-town would be - and still is - expected to go to. An LBD, back when it was a fresh new concept, would have said a lot about the wearer; about how modern, how carefree, how liberated and devil-may-care she was.
The trouble with the LBD now, though, is that it's become a fallback position women adopt when they don't feel confident enough in their creativity, in their own look, to wear something truly fantastic and truly expressive of themselves. It's fashion's missionary. And because it's been so heavily promoted, and reincarnated in every decade since the 1920s, there are just so darn many of them around that to wear an LBD actually makes you pretty much a part of the fashion wallpaper. Dull, dreary, black wallpaper, that is.
This isn't to malign the black dress in general - indeed, I have a couple of other black dresses, both jersey, one clingy and the other floaty, which I love. In both cases, though, the black dresses I love have something a bit different going on - one of them is a print, the other has a daring and unique v-back construction. Both of them have something that sets them apart from the pack. My critique of the LBD is restricted to the heavily promoted 'classic' version - see the description of mine above, or the Portmans window next time you're in a shopping mall. It's the cliché of the black cocktail length dress in a plain fabric with minimal detailing that my vitriol is reserved for.
For me, the fatal flaw of the LBD concept, aside from being overused to the point of cliché, is the idea that a single dress can reflect how you feel at a cocktail party with your girlfriends, on a romantic date, at a work dinner or at a family wedding. All of those events, for me, have a different emotional tone – joy, excitement, loyalty and dread respectively. For all its supposed universality, the LBD doesn't resonate with all of these tones. Before defenders of the LBD will bring out the accessory defense - you can change the tone of the outfit with accessorisation - this in and of itself reflects a sad truth about the LBD: at its very best it's merely a blank canvas for fabulous accessories. Think about the LBD Audrey Hepburn wore in ‘Breakfast at Tiffany's’. Now take away the necklace and the cigarette holder. What have you got left? Not a whole lot of fabulous, that's for sure.
My clothes ought - no, need - to be more than blank canvases, just as a writer needs his or her words to be more than just text on a page. Whilst it's necessary to have some pieces in your wardrobe that whisper rather than shout ‘fabulous’ from the rooftops, I feel that the LBD doesn’t even belong in the category of whisperers. Every piece in your wardrobe - even if it's a workhorse item like jeans or a black vee neck - must be more than just a blank canvas, and must have something to say. Most of us don't have the money, or hanging space, for clothes that don't say anything at all, and can ill afford to surrender our individuality to clichés in an increasingly homogenized world.
Throwing down a gauntlet, I challenge you, dear reader, to abandon the LBD. Instead, Let's Be Different. To wrangle some ee cummings here, I'd rather learn from one bird how to sing than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance.
So Let's Be Different.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
