Driven like a meth-addict.

Most people wake up and the first thing they think about is a special person in their life - a spouse, a girlfriend, a boyfriend, a boss, your sophomore year anthropology professor, the really attractive Varsity softball coach who's managed to look 40 years old for the past 15 years - but for me, lately, anyway, those precious few moments between waking up and walking my pup belong to the real loves of my life: my wishlist items.

On this morning, my still-in-bed fantasy centered on that Betsey Johnson polka-dot mini featured in yesterday's Valentine's Day dress collection. Yes, it's beautiful and yes, it's undeniably me, but it's also $365, it's not something I could ever wear to work, and perhaps most convincing of all, even if I did have the allocated funds, there's no in-the-foreseeable-future special occasion to justify such an indulgence.

So you give up, right? You get out of bed, use your Senseo to make a double vanilla latte, go for that exta long run to clear your head and put your body at the necessary caloric deficit for all-day consumption of Super Bowl party fare. In essence, you put things in perspective and adopt an it's-just-a-dress-after-all attitude, right?

Wrong. What you do is finally put to use all you've learned from those hundreds if not thousands of hours of addiction documentaries you've seen on the Discovery/Times, MSNBC, and A&E networks. You think about that pock-marked woman running the meth lab out of her double-wide in central Missouri -- what would she do if she couldn't get red phosphorus, sulfuric acid or ether? Would she give up? Would she wait until she was financially solvent or until her deadbeat boyfriend's release from Fort Madison?

I think we know the answer.

Driven like a toothless addict willing to sell her older child for a smack hit, I want - no I need - to find a way to make this dress happen. Legally and responsibly, of course, but with no less vigor and determination.

While my alter ego might steal or offer her womanly services in exchange for what she needs, I'm thinking more along the lines of eBay-ing and budget reallocation.

Do I really think I'll wear that overpriced Voom! silk Kimono mini again?

Do I really need to see Arika at Blue Mercury this month?

Do I really need to insist on paying for my own drinks when I go out with my male friends whose salaries are more than triple mine?

Do I really need a pedicure this month?

Or groceries?

Still lying in bed wrapped up in my many melon and mint-hued blankets, sheets, and quilts, I addressed these questions, one-by-one.

No, I didn't think I would wear my kimono mini again. Yes, I could wait to see Arika until next month. No, I didn't need to keep insisting on paying for my own drinks, especially when these overachievers always picked destinations like the Round Robin where Stella Artois put me back $10/draft. No, I didn't need to get a pedicure this month. Yes, I still need groceries, but I can cut back on indulgences like Fresca 12-packs, family-size bags of Twizzlers, and my precious organic sweet potato fries.

Right there, in 15 minutes, I had appropriated approximately $150 (assuming I could recoup half of what I spent on that damn dress), $70 (Arika's fee plus tip), at least $50 (so far, only two such happy hours planned this month), $55 (Jennifer's fee plus tip), and somewhere around $20 ($30 if I can convince myself to get by on only one box of Morning Star veggie patties).

Total: $345 -- only $40 short (including tax/S&H) of owning my polka-dot Betsey dress.

It's past noon, and if you'll excuse me, I have to do a "Rosy Toes" soak, pumice and apply a double-coat of "Double-Decker Red," all while honing my criminal-mind skills with the "Crime & Punishment" marathon now on MSNBC.