(I know I don’t have to remind you that today is the last day to buy a shirt, so I won’t.)

I used to wholeheartedly scorn Victoria’s Secret and Victoria’s Secret customers alike. Those poor misguided fools, overpaying so dramatically for their unmentionables! That insidious store, tempting mall patrons with their fake pillars and pink wallpaper! I walked past the SoHo location with my head held high and my Filene’s Basement underwire stabbing me nobly in the armpits: I had my flaws, but at least I didn’t shop at Vicky’s.

But, see, here’s the thing. Over the summer, they had this sale, right? And I was desperately in need of something in a non-stabbing brassiere, and their cotton collection was marked down enough that it made my pitiful bargain hunting seem all for naught. So I caved, and I bought one, and then I went back the next week and bought four more of the exact same thing. Because, my little buckeroos and buckerettes: This god damned bra is a feat of engineering on par with the fucking pyramids, I’m not kidding. There is no stabbing. There is no strap-slipping. There is only the gentlest yet firmest support imaginable, and there isn’t even any of that lacy crap all over it.

It’s a slippery slope, I’m not denying that. I’ve decided it’s acceptable to stock up on fancy undies when they’re on sale. I’ve redrawn the line at paying full price for any of their products, no matter how tempting, but I can feel my resolve slipping already. I braved the store again this past week to pick up some of their (5 for $20) panties, and it was all I could do to walk out without new pajamas and bathrobes and did I mention they have an entire collection named after me?

It doesn’t help that their salespeople have been effectively instilled with a manner that somehow combines a sort of co-conspiratorial slumber party slyness with the pushiness of a used car dealer. The one girl who singled me out from the herd and attacked, measuring tape waving cheerfully in her wake, seemed genuinely hurt when I turned down her offer of a free bra fitting. No, no, it’s not that I don’t want you to feel me up in the back room, it’s just I have this class to go to. No, honest! Please stop crying! Look, look, I’ll get a couple more pairs of the charcoal heather low-rise bikinis and we’ll call it even, okay?