It's a lucky thing for me that I live in an area where the postman drives a Jeep to deliver the mail. If he had to load up a sack and walk this route, he'd hate my guts. Why? Because I receive ten pounds worth of mail-order catalogs every other day, that's why. And you know what else? I'm glad. I love catalogs, to the point of mania, even if it does mean that I can't look my mailman in the eye. I love catalogs for two reasons: first, I really like to shop, but haven't got the time or energy to do much of it out there in the real world of retail. Second, catalogs are like playgrounds for my imagination. I've paged through many a Neiman Marcus catalog trying to figure out what sort of rich woman would buy something so ugly, unless the very ugliness of the garment is like a secret code to other rich women: psst! Isn't this hideous? It cost a fortune! Or worse, I'll see something so painfully beautiful that I'll find myself calculating how many times I'd have to wear a jacket that costs as much as our mortgage before I'd break even.

Of course, you can do this sort of fantasy shopping at the mall too. The only problem with that is the annoying frequency with which you'll run into other human beings, many of who will rudely intrude on your daydreams by encouraging you to buy something or leave. I like to go into really expensive high-end boutiques, and I like to look at and touch beautiful things. I would never waste a salesperson's time by pretending that I was there to buy if I wasn't. I'm too terrified of them to waste their time. The women in particular give me the chills. Thin, chic, with perfectly lacquered lips and nails, every hair just so, in gleaming hose and stiletto heels, she glides toward me, sleek as a wild predator. Like prey, I panic, and try to blend into the foliage. "Thanks," I bleat, "Just having a look." "Aah," she'll nod. "Yes. Well. Is there anything in particular I might show you?" What goes unsaid, as her perfectly shadowed eyes rapidly scan me head to toe, is her conviction that there is absolutely nothing in the store that I can either afford or deserve to wear. These icy retail divas have a way of reducing me to a sniveling pulp, of seeing into my very core, the inner me that thinks only a dangerous lunatic would pay a thousand dollars for a sweater. Also, they always look perfect, whereas I always look exhausted and in need of Chap Stick.

Every once in a while, if I'm feeling particularly confident and reckless, I'll go so far as to try something on. With mixed results. I've had the three-way mirror pleasure of seeing myself in thirty-six hundred dollars worth of Badgley Mischka (totally ready for the red carpet) and in a purple Escada that I managed to make look both cheap and scary. I've never recovered from the six or so minutes I spent wearing a Donna Karan suit that made me look like an exotic gazelle. Price: twice that of my first car. Then there was the Giorgio Armani in wine-colored silk shantung that made me look like a swollen mucous membrane. It was easy to walk away from that disaster, but I still pine for the Donna Karan. And shoe stores! Shoe stores make me swoon. I want to try on every single pair, including the ones I will never, ever wear, like the pale lavender slides, beaded with iridescent paillettes, that look like they might hold up for one night, then promptly fall apart. For this reason, I only permit myself to buy shoes online, via catalog, or from stores with the word "warehouse" in the title, these being the kind of places where no one cares if you want to spend your entire afternoon staring happily at a single boot. Leather handbags shatter me. Earrings make me weak. I've spent uncounted hours walking through stores in what can only be described as a trance state, moving from one exquisitely beautiful object to another, happy just to be near all that wonderful stuff. Sometimes I wonder what it must be like to shop and spend without ever having to look at a price tag. Would your closets be packed with incredible things that you'd scarcely have a chance to wear? If you can have anything you want, does anything feel special? Probably not. What's so great about a Kate Spade tote if you already have half a dozen other Kate Spade bags gathering dust on a shelf? Or maybe that's the dirty lie that rich people tell to keep the rest of us down. Maybe there's no limit on how much pleasure can be gleaned from a rack of Gucci blouses. I'll never know. Even if I did win the Powerball, there's no way that I could blow it all on clothes. I'd just feel like a well-dressed idiot. On top of that, I suffer from a peculiar malady that prevents me from wearing the really gorgeous clothing that I do have. It's like I'm saving it for some mysterious special occasion. The mystery being mostly how it is I'll manage to stay awake late enough to have a fabulous occasion to get dressed up for in the first place.

Catalogs let me shop like a spoiled heiress, while laying around in my jammies with a dog's head on my foot. There are things I miss, like the glorious hush of a fine retail emporium, with its rich smell of newness and luxury. Gone too is the thrill of touching fabrics and stroking leathers, of brushing against a wall of silk blouses, cool and weighty, with that almost liquid quality that only silk has. But by browsing at home, I get to sit and stare and drool to my heart's content without bothering another soul. It's ridiculously easy to get on the mailing list of high-end retailers, and as everyone knows, once you get on the mailing lists, it's easier to clone your own head than it is to stop the catalog deluge from coming. My husband once thought he'd do me a favor and have my name removed from the master lists. For some crazy reason, he thought that all of my catalogs were junk mail and a nuisance. Can you imagine! He made some calls on my behalf, but to no avail. A hundred years after my death, Bloomingdale's will still be sending me monthly mailings. Long after the sun has been extinguished, I can promise you that my mailbox will continue to overflow with glossy booklets from Saks, Kenneth Cole, Nordstrom and Macy's. When questioned or harassed by some mean ogre, like say, my spouse, I justify my catalogaholism by wielding a bit of ancient wisdom, one that no man has ever successfully argued with: I'm a girl. Girls like to shop. Leave me alone.