Why Live In NYC If You Can't Shop? (Confessions of a Shopaholic)

ooooooooopsies.
I behaved badly this past weekend.
I started out on a quest to purchase some more work clothes, because I'm pretty sure my colleagues are sick and tired of seeing my same pair of patterned pants or blue blouse day after day after day. 
Well, let's just say I ended up justifying my actual (non-work) purchases with "as long as it isn't half of my paycheck, I can still afford to eat this week!" and "but pumpkin spice latte season is quickly approaching and what am I going to do without the perfect utility jacket I can happily sweat under the full late August sun in??"
Problems.
It's not my fault, I swear.
I blame the magical land called C. Wonder's fitting rooms. Touch-screen panels that allow you to adjust the lighting (my bank account hates the dim option now) and the mood music (playful! flirty! nostalgic!) AND fun mod carpets and fabric dividers that I snapped pictures of as future home decor inspiration?! And the sweet salespeople who walk your purchase around the counter to you. What the what.

devils on my shoulder.
And then there was that white dress from Banana Republic with the white leather sleeves. It's one of those dresses. You put it on and feel like a million bucks (well. you know you'll feel like a million bucks once five pounds disappear with a 'poof!', but $950,000 doesn't suck either). I'd tried it on the day before and knew it'd be the perfect rooftop bar dress, but it was a weensy bit over my price limit. What do ya know, I tried it on again the next day and the pricetag was suspiciously twenty bucks cheaper. Now I have to get it; it's a matter of principle.
Oh, and today.
Hmm. I went into Kate Spade because. Because. Just because. But there I am perusing casually, touching a satin-y dress here and picking up a soft leather bag there. I came upon the shoe section (thumping heart) and lovingly petted a pair of black suede booties with the prettiest mini bow on the black and a metallic plate on the heel, knowing that I can't afford them. 
Adorable salesgirls in chic hot pink minidresses approach me, generous with compliments and trouble sparkling from their eyes.
"Oh, those are for sure marked wrong." They go on this spiel about how a comparable pair of shoes would be at the very least twice the price and how they're just SO CLASSIC and look, how about you just try them on. And wow, they go perfectly with your dress! By the way, they're made in Italy. And yeah, they'll for sure realize their mistake today and mark up the price, that's why we're all getting a pair during our break. Oooh, and what a coincidence - there's only one left in your size!
I was putty in their hands, guys, I couldn't help it. I got the shoes. 
How does tap bottled tepid ice water sound as sustenance for the rest of the week?