I might as well admit it from the get-go. My name is Anne Garber, and I am a shopaholic.

There is no 12-step program for people like me. We just pay the piper by struggling to pay the Visa bill. And we take a lot of unwarranted abuse.

I won't bore you with all the self-justifying propaganda I could dish out about how we support economic growth in the retail sector, or how we are all -- as a rule -- generous to a fault in buying just the right gift for the right recipient, etc., etc.

Let's just cut to the chase with an exploration (and explanation) of the root causes for shopaholism, and why it won't do you any good at all to lecture us for being packrats or obsessive-compulsives or spendthrifts. We've heard it all, and believe me, our compulsion far outweighs the dollop of guilt you ladle on.

The element of serendipity:

Serendipity is variously defined as meaning "unexpected and fortunate discoveries," "the lucky tendency to find interesting or valuable things just by chance," and, context, "the actress Lana Turner, it is said, was discovered by serendipity at Schwab's Hollywood drug store." So Serendipity also means "being in the right place at a fortuitous time."

For shopaholics, being in the right place at a fortuitous time is a huge root cause of the desire to shop. You never know exactly when you'll need those regular-$4-but-priced-now-at-99-cents lined rubber gloves in your exact size -- and they're not on your shopping list -- but you know that sooner or later (probably sooner) you will indeed need them. Recently, this turned out to be precisely the case for me, and now -- wouldn't you know it? -- I regret not having bought two pair, when they were right there in my hand! (We'll follow through on the Buy Two rule, further on.)

So it follows that -- having not bought two (or three; might as well be safe) on the last shopping trip, the next time we encounter a serendipitous, unexpected deal, what do we do? Why, we stock up, naturally! Of course we do. You do see the logic therein, don't you?

To be perfectly frank, the serendipitous "find" might not be merely one of many root causes of shopaholism, it might very well be the most important factor in why we shop.

This is what it's all about, after all. It's the unexpected aspect of that little, hidden bargain, waiting to be pounced upon. It's the notion that everyone else overlooked it, but you alone were clever enough to persist, to burrow into the pile, to find the best one, the pick of the litter. And it's also that you were savvy enough to recognize the item in question for what it was: a diamond in the rough, a fabulous bargain in the guise of a piece of junk. Which brings me to my next shopaholism defining factor:

The One the Got Away:

Virtually every serious shopper will be only too happy to bore you with at least one (and likely several) stories about the great deals that got away from them. I have two such stories, both of which happened at garage sales. And -- more's the pity -- one of them was my own garage sale. But these are not just vignettes frozen in time in my memory. These are defining moments.

The first one was early on in my history of unbridled acquisitiveness. I was at a yard sale in Vancouver's trendy West Side, when across the expanse of lawn, I spotted a wonderful Art Nouveau-style (and by this, I mean the "real thing," as it was the early '70s, when no one was yet creating reproductions) solid brass bird cage stand. Above my head (next to the "Aha!" exclamation) appeared a little thought balloon, in which I was already writing: "Ideal way to hang my potted fern" (this was the '70s, after all). No sooner had the thought occurred to me, than an interloper reached forward and snatched away my prize. The price: One dollar. This was an epiphany. An event that will forever be etched deep in my memory. When the old age has clouded my recollection and overcome what is left of my good sense, likely this one sunny scene will still remain written large in my thoughts. More importantly, perhaps, somewhere in Vancouver, a person less appreciative of this fabulous treasure than I would have been has probably relegated it to a neglected corner of the barn, thinking -- since it cost a solitary buck 30 years ago -- it is worthless. Why, if I ever get my hands on him…

The next One That Got Away was -- as I already confessed -- at a garage sale that I myself held. We lived in what I liked to describe as "the Cheap Seats portion" of otherwise-very-posh Southlands. Behind our shack of a house (not a complete exaggeration, honest) was an even shackier structure, known laughingly as "the garage." We would never have parked a car in it, as I'm not sure that the lane-side garage door even opened. In any case, there was a dangerously about-to-fall-in "upstairs" to the garage. It was so precariously rotten that we probably owned the house for a couple of years before we ever had the nerve to explore it. But one day, my then-husband decided to "clean up the attic in the garage" (I used to think of that as code for "sneak away some place she won't dare venture, in order to drink tequila"), so I was very surprised when he announced that he had actually discovered "a bunch of old crap" up there.

The one-time owner of the place was some kind of fisherman, so there were actually a number of cool objets up there, like coloured glass floats (I still have one), huge lengths of fish net (some of it brand new, much of it in very good shape anyway), an a few mottled, seriously thrashed odds and sods of furniture. We pulled all of the furniture out, to add it to our garage sale that Sunday, and the stuff sold like hot-cakes.

One of the pieces was a partly dismembered old-fashioned wind-up gramophone. It still had its turntable, but it was missing some important "guts," so it wouldn't work. I was standing with my hand on the turntable, absently pushing it around (we had priced it at the outrageous -- in 1975 -- price of $25), when a guy approached me. (Did he look oddly familiar? Was he the same guy who has stolen my Art Nouveau bird cage stand from right under my nose? If so, I didn't make the connection at the time.)

Disdainfully, he demanded to know "whut in th' world could-ja use thet broke'n down ole thing for?" I wasn't paying 100 per cent attention, so I absently pointed out that you could maybe put a jade plant on the turntable, so you could turn it to face the sunlight evenly, when he shouted out: "SOLD!" His shout came exactly at the moment I realized I really wanted to keep the gramophone for myself and use it for exactly that purpose (what is it with me and plants, anyway?), but a deal's a deal. So I had to let him buy it.

Now in this case, at any rate, the guy paid twenty-five 1975 dollars for this treasure, so at least he knows it's a fabulous antique. Let's see: I need to make myself feel better about this transaction, so let's calculate the price in 2004 dollars. . .okay. . .that's $400, so if I had that gramophone today and sold it on eBay (and it would cost a fortune to ship it anywhere). Okay, he got a deal, I'm over it, I'm all right, honest, yes, I'm fine with it.

Whew.

The worst thing about contemplating The One That Got Away is that -- emotionally, at least -- you feel that the item inherently belonged to you. It whispered to you privately that it recognized the connection between you and itself, as only an inanimate object can do with a human. So something very foul and unnatural has happened to come between you and this personal treasure.

On a practical, shopperly level, The One That Got Away hardens your heart, toughens your resolve and basically compels you to be just a little more impulsive the next time you're considering a purchase. Perhaps if I'd sprinted across the yard to the birdcage stand. Perhaps if I'd told the gramophone buyer: "Ya don' even talk good, get outta here, git lost."

And this is why shopaholics should never attend auctions. Too impulsive. Will definitely catch Auction Fever. Don't even think of signing for a paddle. Uh-uh!

The down-side of Creative Visualization:

What "creative visualization" really means is being able to see something as applied to a different use than what it was intended for, originally. Ah, yes, the old gramophone story. But there are many, many other examples.

Recently, for instance, I found some long wire racks at Superstore, marked down from $9.98 to $1.97. The point is not that it was such a super mark-down (which it was), but that the original purpose of these racks (and they didn't sell for that purpose, testified to by the fact that so many of them were stacked up to be blown out at about 80 per cent off) was to store coiled garden hoses (whatever those are). I don't have a coiled garden hose (and I'm not even sure exactly what one is), but I immediately recognized that I could use these racks in a space in my basement I had already designated for shelves to store canned goods. Now, because I had stumbled upon this bargain, and it turned out to be an excellent solution, I was able to create my canned goods storage space much more cheaply than if I had had to buy wood for shelves. And the solution also turned out to be space-efficient, so I triumphed in two ways. See? Creative visualization.

On the other hand, creative visualization sometimes heralds the genesis of A Project. And the real down-side is that you have to actually do the project to make the bargain worthwhile. And un-started projects create clutter, so there's a serious down-side. That might explain the stacks of fabric, notions and project supplies in my so-called sewing room. But it doesn't excuse the mess.

Why Buy Just One?

Now, here a real challenge for the shopaholic: You go to buy some comfortable walking boots, and you find -- really -- the Perfect Pair. You walk around the store. A lot. You buy the shoes and wear them, and they are truly comfortable, practical, an amazing price, given the quality. The conundrum: Do you return the next day and buy a second pair, or do you restrain yourself and consider yourself lucky to have found exactly what you want? Well, what are you asking me for? I'm a self-confessed shopaholic, for heaven's sake. So naturally I'm going to vote for the Buy Two rule. (Anyway, we bought two, meaning we each bought two pairs, and we've never regretted it. I think John has finally moved along to his second pair, just recently.)

If you're in a foreign country and you find something simply excellent, you must buy at least two. That's a rule. And it isn't just my rule. It's a Known Rule.

A few years ago in Paris, I found the best lavender-scented liquid hand-soap ever, and I only bought one. I obsessed about this for a full year, and when we returned (finally) after a two-year hiatus, I bought six. I'm down to my last (just started) one now, but luckily, we'll be back in Paris in a month, so guess how many I'll be carting back this time?

Never shop with another Shopaholic:

This almost goes without saying, but really, it can't be repeated too often: You will only feed each other's shopaholism. Not that you will be competitive. Au contraire, you will delight in pointing out to each other all the goodies you want someone to buy, as it is equally satisfying to see a good friend make a great purchase or find a wonderful bargain. That's why we say to ourselves -- just when we're buying something we know we should leave on the shelf -- "Sally would love this."

Likewise, never ask a fellow shopaholic's advice on whether or not you should buy something. He or she will always say yes.