A trip to the mall bombards me with unattainable ideals of “perfection” everywhere I turn. Mannequins of one standard body shape and size taunt me in each store I enter, all of them wearing clothing that won’t look anything on me like it does on them. Their plastic bodies are tall and thin; I am less than 5 feet with more than my fair share of curves. They stand in casual poses; I am sitting in my wheelchair. To me, mannequins are not always inviting displays. Instead, they’re nothing more than sculptures of a supposedly idyllic body type that I