All I was looking for were two tabletop Christmas trees, of varying sizes. It was mid-November, and as much as I dreaded what was coming—the pulling out of all the boxes in the attic, the decorating of the house, the eating-too-much, drinking-too-much, spending-too-much…the whole six weeks of the Christmas season…I knew I would succumb to it again. I drove with 10-year-old Skye to our neighborhood’s glorified, glittered, crafting mecca—Hobby Lobby.

Every year I try to get rid of one or two old things and buy one or two new things for the house, for my sanity and my need to mix it up. There is no reason for me to not like Christmas; I haven’t suffered any tragic loss or traumatic childhood memories around the holiday, at least not yet. (Although there was the one Christmas fifteen or so years back when both my sisters and my mother got a piece of jewelry from their husbands and I got a Sprint gift card..that didn’t end too well).

As a kid, Christmas was the best day of the year for me. Dad was a carpenter and Mom stayed home, but they were so committed to coming through for us that usually something large was sold in November—a car, a power tool my Dad owned, something to provide enough cash to buy us three girls the latest talking dolls and pink floral pajamas.

My main beef with Christmas is this: I know I’m going to get sucked into the vortex, the frenzy, the stress, the overshopping…and by the time I’m spit out on the beach six weeks later, I’m ten pounds heavier and I have a massive hangover. Sure, I’ve tried the spiritual approach: lighting the advent candles (I think one year we lit two on the table), doing the “Welcome Jesus” devotionals (made it through a few pages), telling my kids they were only getting three gifts each this year because that’s how Jesus got it (and then filling their stockings with ten more gifts). I know myself, I am well acquainted with my weaknesses. I know what’s coming the week or two before Thanksgiving, and unless I buy myself a six-week trip to Hawaii, it’s going to be too much. All of it.

Which brings me back to the Hobby Lobby outing. Hobby Lobby is what happened when Michaels and Big Lots had a baby that grew up on yard sales and Pinterest: when you walk into the store, the Lobby comes before the Hobby. In the lobby, they hit you with some shelving, a few chairs, and some adorable accent tables that immediately grab your attention, because they’re at least 70% off. One of Hobby Lobby’s greatest weapons in their arsenal is the signs. Yes, the furniture is cute and functional, but it’s the signs that get you. WELCOME, HOME, THIS IS MY HAPPY PLACE, which all sound trite unless you place them next to a seafoam green shabby chic sofa table that’s 70% off.

This is the first warning sign that you are in trouble. You really should turn around and go to Walmart, because you want to get in and out of Walmart as soon as humanly possible. If you make it beyond the furniture lobby without any major purchases, you’ve passed the first test. But your heart is already beating a little bit faster and the adrenaline is beginning to move you forward. You grab a basket that’s way too small and you are greeted by someone at the nearby register, “Welcome to Hobby Lobby.” You sort of hear it in the distance, but what’s more pressing in the moment to overcome is the assault on your senses as you take in the ten rows of twelve-foot shelving on your left carrying items from at least three separate holidays. There’s Halloween still selling off, Thanksgiving in full swing, and Christmas…sweet baby Jesus, there is Christmas.

If you can make it past the Halloween clearance without buying some precious pumpkin lantern that’s now 80% off, chances are you won’t make it past Thanksgiving. You will definitely be buying the table runner that is also 50% off, and what the hell, let’s go ahead and throw in six or eight gold, braided flower placemats; they’re so neutral and you can use them all year long.

You’re feeling pretty good so far, you’ve exercised massive self-restraint, but you’re only about four shelves in. What you haven’t accepted, even though you know its truth deep down in your soul, is that you are still only at the gateway of temptation. Where you are about to enter, there is no returning…at least not for four hours. Women better than you have missed several meals here, have passed out in the scrapbooking section from low blood sugar, have pushed their marriages to the brink of divorce trying to decide between a wooden sign that says, “Always kiss me goodnight” or a wire framed wall hanging that says, “Mr & Mrs,” leaving their husbands home languishing with the kids from dawn until dusk.

The only real question is why Hobby Lobby hasn’t added a coffee bar and a wine bar yet—they are the only things missing in their business model.

You peel yourself away from the holiday shelving and enter into a world of midcaps. Allow me to explain: in a retail store, there are endcaps, meaning—the end of an aisle. Often, stores like Target or Walmart will put sale items or just everyday items on the endcaps. At Hobby Lobby, actual, gods-honest endcaps are the least of your worries.

It is in the land of midcaps where you will fall.

Tables upon tables full of things to delight your senses line the space between the aisles, acting as a separator of sorts between shit on the left and shit on the right. You are mesmerized by the glow and glitter of sleighs, lanterns, angels, and scripted signs…oh, the signs. The words, the meaning. You forget from whence you came or where you belong. All that matters is the beauty around you, the soft cottony feel of angel’s wings, the rustic manger with the tin roof that will make your home come alive with magic.

This midcap experience will take time. There is so much to see that you don’t even know what you’re seeing. You mostly flitter in between four or five midcaps and then circle back in a zigzag motion, hoping that one more pass will produce something closer to an actual decision. The only moment of clarity that comes is when you see another lost soul pick a treasure off a midcap where you’re stuck, staring like a zombie, and she holds it up to the fluorescent light and you gasp,

“Aw! That is so cute!”

“I know, isn’t it?” She replies. You want to buy it, but she puts it in her cart. How dare she act with such precision? You’re pulled out of your retail daze by your daughter, who thinks she has found the tabletop trees.

She is so wrong.

“What about these, Mom?” she asks, so positive, so hopeful.

“No, they’re both the same size,” You say, letting out a sigh. You both look around and take in the options: feathery trees, metal trees, glittery trees, tinsel trees, cotton trees, wooden trees…you find one tree you like, a golden tree, but you can’t find another that’s smaller. You carry it around for a few minutes, glancing, hoping. You reach in to grab a lantern off a midcap and accidentally knock off a Merry Christmas scripted word sign. It breaks into at least twenty pieces on the floor. “Mom!” your daughter gasps at your clumsiness and helps you pick up the pieces. “Oh well,” you say, “I’ll bring it to the front and see if I have to pay for it.”

One would think this shattering of signs would shake you out of your trance, but you realize that you’ve been there two hours already and you have to pee. You should leave the store and go to a gas station, a McDonalds, anywhere else really, but you don’t. You decide to take the long trek, crossing over the land of wall art, baskets, candles, lamps and fabric to get to the bathroom. On your way, you realize there is a whole additional row of midcaps, also lined with Christmas trees, Santa Clauses and signs, only you haven’t seen some of these yet. Your daughter pulls on your arm, reminding you that you have a bladder, even though you temporarily forgot because you just found the tabletop trees you’ve been looking for your whole life. You pick them up and your kid says, “Fine, Mom. Just get them.” She’s hungry and how can she not understand the difficulty of decorating a home?

You make it to the bathroom, but now the long walk to the register, which leads you past the art supplies, and your art-loving daughter is drawn into the insanity. “Mom, these are the best markers,” she says with wonder. “Get them,” you say, too weak now to resist anything. You’ve already filled the basket with God-knows-what; you can’t justify refusing her one pack of markers.

You make it back to the register, through what feels more like a desert of frames, plates, bowls and mirrors; you’re parched, starving, and it’s getting dark outside. You remember your phone and you look down at it; you’ve missed 29 messages.

While at the register, Hobby Lobby makes one final attempt to destroy your finances; the books, the jewelry and the candy. You’re so tired, but you see these earrings, and oh my gosh, they’re just…you throw them in the basket. As you approach the register, you feel rising regret over the number of items you place on the shelf. You fumble through your phone to find a coupon, even though you know it won’t help. Their coupons are only for full-price items, and every single thing you bought was on sale. It’s all on sale.

You pull out the broken sign and say with genuine shame, “I’m sorry, ma’am, I broke this, and I’m happy to pay for it.” She replies with grace, “Oh no, ma’am, you don’t have to pay for it. This happens all the time in here.” Before she can finish her sentence, you hear glass breaking in the back of the store. You smile and feel less alone.

Even while you check out, you’re looking…still looking…at the display at the front. It’s sick, so sick. You even wander over to touch the golden sleigh filled with white poinsettias, and your daughter says, “Maaaaahhhmmm,” and you walk back, slowly, your hand still lifted in mid-air. You scan your card, knowing you have zero justification for this massive expense when you came in here for two tabletop trees.

With your last bit of energy, you walk outside into the dim light and your kid looks up at you and says, “Mom, you could die in there!”

She’s so young and so wise. Hobby Lobby is a drug, and you’re the addict. Sure, they’re closed on Sundays, but what kind of business besides Chick-Fil-a can claim this much of your income and call itself a “Christian organization?”