I’d say I’m an orderly member of society. I pay my taxes and don’t cut lines. Most of the time, I even look both ways before crossing the street. So I’m aware that my jaunts involve false pretenses and wasting innocent people’s time. This behavior actually originated with my mother, the frugal daughter of rural Guangzhou shopkeepers, who discovered the delights of upscale window-shopping when she immigrated to New York City in the late 1980s. At age 12, I followed her inside the Fifth Avenue Prada, arms pressed to my sides like I’d done at the Met, praying I wouldn’t elbow a Vermeer. My mother laughed at my bloodless face. “We’re allowed to touch them,” she said, patting a pair of pointlessly large sunglasses. “Here, you try.”