They say admitting to yourself that you have a problem is the first step to recovering from an addiction. Though disagreement abounds over this, namely from Charlie Sheen, I will do so in the interest of experimentation. So, here goes: I am addicted to shopping.

Was that anticlimactic? A little. But when you learn the extent of my problem, maybe you’ll understand. Nothing makes me happier than buying clothes, shoes, and the occasional handbag. And by “nothing,” I really mean nothing. You could accurately compare the feeling I get from buying and wearing new clothes to the feeling the “Biggest Loser” contestants get when they’re allowed a miniscule bite of decadent chocolate cake, or the feeling a mother gets from her newborn baby.

There’s something about stylish clothes that makes me happy. And it makes sense… right? Stores design and sell clothes for people like me—the ones who are willing to buy (and believe me, I’m willing to buy). I’m just helping them out and making all their hard work worthwhile. Really, I’m doing something beneficial for the store (the word “hero” has been thrown around a lot in describing me, but then again, so has the word “pathetic”).

There really are few things that compare to that of putting together a great outfit, hence why I am always shopping. I just like having new things and wearing new clothes and shoes that I haven’t been staring at for weeks. Just when I think I don’t need another sweater or pair of jeans, my favorite stores do both items in a new way that I just have to have. It has created a vicious, self-perpetuating cycle of clothes, shoes, and handbags that I can’t break.

Shoes are really just the worst because in general, shoes are universally flattering. You don’t put on a pair of shoes and think “Wow, my foot looks fat” the same way you would after putting on a tight dress. Shoes always fit too (assuming your feet aren’t Bigfoot-reminiscent). And even more than clothes, shoe designers are extremely inventive. Shoes are my real weakness– when I got my first paycheck from working, that very day I went to the mall (of course, I said I was only going to “browse” but we all know that could never work), and blew my entire paycheck on a pair of boots.

If you were wondering, the novel and successful movie “Confessions of a Shopaholic” was written about me. But just like Rebecca, I’ve started by admitting my problem (but unlike Rebecca, I don’t have a fabulously quirky friend or hot British boyfriend for support). I should be able to maintain the motivation, as I definitely don’t want to end up on “My Strange Addiction: I own 300 pairs of shoes” or buried under a pile of my own clothes.