Oh God, it's happening. I try to look away, but it lurks, over in the corner, daring me, seducing me. I pretend to be interested as I click the hearts on random posts, but it's no use. I shoot a quick glance at the banner ad where my flirtation began, a few short seconds ago, and it looks even more tempting now. "What's the harm?" the sweater seems to say. I ignore it. A minute later, it gets a little sassy - "Seriously? You can't come to my site for a second?" And then it gets downright bitchy with me. "Fine. Stay in that boring top...you think I care?" Its cable knit shoulders seem to shrug disdainfully.

I click. A harmless little peek. The site has one of those brand names I've never heard, which rings an alarm bell, but I plow ahead. In each square, stands a headless model wearing yet another sweater I can't resist. Many hold coffee cups, which I don't question. Let them drink coffee! I will too! I smile knowingly at the headless models as if I, too, have mastered the art of slouching while maintaining perfect posture.

I force myself to click onto the New York Times site. Here, I’m greeted with an ad that implores me to "up my antibodies" with AstroZeneca. Not sexy. But also not suspect. Or tempting. I skim the headlines and read a couple of columns, but that seductive hint of white shirttail beckons me. "You know you want me," it whispers huskily. And I do. I do.

I glance at the description - Black Plain High Neck Long Sleeve Sweater. As earnest as "I'm an artist," or "I'm a musician." Or actor. Or poet. Or any of the descriptors used by painfully handsome, brooding bad boys at East Village parties when I was young and single and so very happy to believe.

The red flags are waving as if there’s a hurricane. But I read on.

Neck line: High Neck. Sleeve Length: Long Sleeve. Pattern Type: Plain.

I ignore the fact that it also says "Made in the USA" and the syntax sounds as if it wasn't. This relaxed fit, cotton/acrylic machine washable sweater would never do me wrong.

I think back to a 4th of July when I met a painfully handsome actor/singer at a fun little bar in the West Village. He had golden brown curls and sleepy hazel eyes and sculpted cheekbones that glowed in a way I wished mine would. I told him I worked in advertising but wanted to "do other things."

"Oh, yeah," he answered. "You should be on stage."

Wow. I really should be on stage, I thought. He gets me. He leaned in and said more things that demonstrated that he got me, in a voice that was deep and low, and I was gotten. I must have realized that this actor/singer wasn't going to last more than a couple of weeks. In fact, he'd probably fall apart in the first wash. But his lips. Just as the Black Plain High Neck Long Sleeve Sweater's reviewers (all seven of them) said things like "Nice turtleneck sweater. Can't wait to wear it!" the actor/singer's current reviewer (me) was thinking "Amazing abs! Can't wait to see them!" and, God help me, "Seems like a perfect fit!"

We clicked. Or at least, I clicked. I saw him every night for a week. Sometimes he'd call and sometimes, because he was "Impetuous and fun!" he'd show up unexpectedly. He said "I love you" on Day 7 and disappeared on Day 8. Ghosted before ghosting meant anything other than being unimaginative enough to wear a white sheet with eye holes on Halloween.

I clicked on a lot of brooding artists and drummers back then. Until the day I met a stockbroker. Who didn't tell me I belonged onstage, but instead, cocked his head to the side and shyly said "I think you're a real sweetheart," his voice breaking slightly on "sweetheart." I saw him every night for a week, too. And then for another and another. Until I married him.

I smile at how silly I used to be and at how wise I am now. And then, click the Purchase button so that I can wait nine weeks for the Black Plain High Neck Long Sleeve Sweater to arrive, because this one will be different.

I guess some habits never die. Or maybe, as my first love, Davy Jones would say, I'm just a believer.