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life coaching job opportunities seem to housetrain himself. I'm sorry. But I've got problems, too. And there is no reason we can't be civil, is there? So do me the service of lifting your gaze and directing it toward a change room in which I can try on this overpriced teal dishrag that is doubling as a T shirt dress.The shopgirl's head dips a little to the right. At first I think she's nodding off, but then I notice the big plastic tag in her out thrust hand. I take it, having no idea what it's for (Why must one obtain a plastic tag before entering a change room? Are they microchipped for security? Is it a permission thing?) and enter the fluorescent lit pod, pulling the curtain tight behind me.Of course, the dress is small miles too short and acres too narrow across the hips. Silly me choosing a medium. Just because I'm a woman of average height and weight (size 6 or 8 depending the designer, the weather and what I had for lunch) doesn't mean I'm actually medium here in the land of sullen hipsters."Do you have this in a large?" I ask the shopgirl. She looks at me like I just invited her to back to my house to read my thesis on macroeconomics in Burkina Faso."Doubt it," she says, after a great deal of consideration.She slithers out of view, leaving me to contemplate the sight of my (ample, but not objectively fat) behind bound up in an unflattering cotton sling, like a struggling Bjorn trapped infant.By the time she returns, holding a hot pink something, I am back in my own clothes and ready to bolt."This is the last one," she says, indicating the thing in her hand. Not even Paris Hilton, I think, would touch that