Is it better to have shopped and lost than never to have shopped at all?

The question arose recently when I concluded an hour of retail therapy and still needed cheering up. In fact, I actually felt worse than when I started.

``The shopping cure is like that,'' an avowed shopaholic told me. ``Some sessions work, others don't. You just have to keep at it.''

After 9/11 we were told to keep shopping or the ``terrorists would win,'' and now, on the brink of war, we're supposed to spend to keep the economy going. And I'm trying to do my part, but, despite shopping's carefree rep, it actually can be difficult work.

Like falling in love, it's risky business. Sure, you could find The One your first time out, but you also could spend your entire life going from Banana Republic to Ann Taylor to Saks to The Gap to Bloomingdale's and never quite manage to connect, never have that moment when you say to yourself, ``This is it for life.''

``What's wrong with you?'' I asked myself the other day, looking in the dressing-room mirror as I peeled off yet another pair of pants, disgusted, and added it to the large pile of rejects.

I was putting my old clothes back on - what convinced me to buy them I have no idea - when the inevitable knock on the stall door came. It was the saleswoman. ``Did anything work?'' she asked.

Although I knew she wasn't the one who designed the low-rise cargos or even chose them for the store, I was feeling sort of hostile. But I appreciated her diplomatic language nonetheless. It was the khakis that hadn't worked, not my figure.

``No,'' I said, ``nothing worked.''

Defeated, I headed out of the store, careful not to catch my reflection in one of the many mirrors, and called a friend for a boost.

``Look,'' she said, ``it could have been worse. You could have been me.''

She'd recently had the opposite experience. Rather than being too picky, she'd fallen hard for a garment - a coat - that was not right for her. Maybe it was the lighting, or the music, or the sweet-talking salesman, but all she knows is this:

``The second I left the store I knew it was wrong,'' but by that point it was too late, she told me. She'd already said yes. The coat was on deep discount. All sales final.

``Now I've got to learn to live with it,'' she said.

As I walked down the street, heading to another store, I recalled a cautionary tale relayed by a co-worker: She told me she'd suffered ``shopping hangovers.''

``I've almost gotten physically ill after shopping,'' she said. ``It's as if I've eaten too much.''

I was getting almost too scared to shop, but when I arrived at my destination - an extremely cute boutique on Charles Street - the most gorgeous ribbon belt I'd ever seen called me from the back.

It was obscenely overpriced and didn't match any of my clothes, but I bought it anyway. Hey, it was a retail-therapy breakthrough, and I'm just glad I was smart enough to recognize it.

Or at least that's how I'll feel until the credit card bill arrives with my co-pay.