My pal Mary suspects that our favorite clothing shop intentionally installed one of those skinny mirrors in its dressing room. How else could the owner sell a smock top to me, a five foot three fire hydrant? Or cropped pants? Or some heinous combination of the two? The mirror at the top of my stairs is a fat mirror and mercilessly lit by overhead halogens. More than once I’ve ran the risk of tumbling down a flight of stairs because I was doing stupid poses trying to recreate some elusive silhouette that was mine just minutes before at the boutique.