Who could resist the temptation of owning purple corduroy bib overalls? Not me.

It’s not even L.L. Bean lite – it’s L.L. Bean cheap. But I’m in love with it and its promise of affordable stuff.

Already I’ve outfitted my living room with a mission-style coffee table, end tables and entertainment center, and have been convinced by my normally conservative husband that for $37.50 we simply could not pass up a luscious periwinkle painted metal head- and footboard set for our bed.

Shopping L.L. Bean’s seasonal discount store at the former Ames department store in the Lewiston Mall has been my perfect guilty pleasure these past couple of months. And I’m pretty sure I have plenty of company.

Usually, I drop by on a weekend – at the end of their four-day run. But now, as the store’s Feb. 12 closing date approaches (say it isn’t so), I feel a sense of urgency. I go Thursday instead.

Last Thursday, in less than 10 minutes, I had scored two gray fleeces (probably everyone in Lewiston-Auburn owns one by now) and three pairs of pants.

(I have a weird daydream that I arrive at a local party and everyone is wearing the same L.L. Bean yellow crop pants. Or maroon red pumps. Or scoop-necked shirt but in different pastel colors.)

Along the way my husband contributes two large and one extra-large green-and-white Bean tote bags. We stuff them with our purchases.

An unusually patient shopper for a man laden with bags and women’s clothes, my husband, Bill, heads for the front of the store, where he says he’ll wait for me. Between his bulk and the bags, navigating the narrow space between the clothing racks is nearly impossible at worst and unpleasant at best.

I, along with a couple of dozen women and a few older men, scavenge the racks for something we haven’t already bought. I realize the pickins are mighty slim. At least in the “sturdy” sizes. I already have all the stretch pants I need (some would say I do not need any stretch pants), and khakis by any other color are still shapeless pants that could make a model look chunky.

But I keep on poking, sure I’ve missed something. Besides, I want my sixth pair so I can get all six for $20. I am so intent I’m startled and disoriented when an overhead fan motor makes a racket. A woman in the next aisle pauses, too. We look at each other and then up at the large, round vent in the ceiling over our heads, and then back at each other.

“I was afraid it was some kind of shopping vortex that would suck us all up into there and it would be all over,” I say, and we laugh loudly and guiltily. But we both look back at the vent to make sure the air is blowing out, not sucking in. It is, and we go back to looking.

After a quick trip to the shoes and boots at the back of the store, I spy my husband heading toward me looking slightly pained. “Are you almost done, because my arms hurt,” he says. And I know it is time to stop. It is a sign from God. Bill is a strong man who rarely complains. It must be time to stop.

We are heading for the checkout when his cell rings. He’s tied up long enough for me to get a hat, a pair of overalls for me and boots for him. Thank you for the distraction, I say silently to the caller.

We approach the cashier with our familiar refrain: “Is there any hope they’ll stay open, or open a store here permanently.” We’re talking over one another.

“People are begging us to stay open,” she says, removing items from my over-stuffed bags and putting them back nicely folded – but still stuffed in. She is cheerful, but offers no real hope of a change in the store’s plans to close.

As the cash register rings, I survey the booty:

• Six pairs of women’s pants (some fit, some don’t);

• Two gray fleeces (my 74-year-old mom needed one, too);

• One lime green child’s fleece hat that fits a middle-aged woman perfectly;

• One goose down jacket in … cranberry!;

• One pair of indoor women’s boots, half-a-size too big (I’ll wear thick socks.);

• One pair of men’s outdoor boots (with spiked soles!);

• Two large turtlenecks (ones that actually fit me now as opposed to the six mediums I bought a couple of weeks ago, but are only suitable for wearing under sweaters and then only with a struggle and much twisting and tugging of fabric.);

• One pair of girls’ size 18 purple corduroy bib overalls (keep in mind my daughter is 25 years old and a size 6. These are for me.); and

• One big box of something called “fat wood,” which my husband assures me is great for starting fires when the stove has gone out.

Total: $246.39.

I leave behind two medium-sized blaze orange hats with ear flaps and a visor that would do justice to Elmer Fudd. Laughable does not describe my reflection in the store’s mirror and, still, as I pass the carriage stuffed with camo and blaze orange hats, I sigh and say longingly, “But, it’s lined with Thin-su-late …”

Maybe next year?