I’ve been looking for a dresser for what’s known affectionately as my Totally ’80s Guest Room–for months. Dear Lady Bricabrac is known to quip that there’s no real rush to buy, that most of the pieces I’m interested in aren’t going anywhere—because, after all, who else wants them? This is often true. My friends these days are not, as a rule, furnishing their new-construction homes with old pieces (can you believe it?) or frequenting my favorite curiosity shops, and I’ve been visiting some of my top-choice dressers over the course of several months, if not longer. But there’s always that outside chance that one of my darlings will find another home.

One of the darlings. (Mirrorless, but with casters.)

Despite the fact that I have a nearly exhaustive list of requirements for the dresser in my head—oak (but I’m flexible), no paint, at least four drawers, original (or at least close) hardware, no machine screws, working drawers, casters, attached beveled mirror (with etchings and rounded shape, extra bonuses), not excessive decorative flourishes, vintage 1920s-30s–I’ve seen exactly what I’m looking for. At least a dozen times. This is not a rare piece. Some darlings are taller and others shorter, some have two smaller top drawers and others one larger drawer, some are lighter and others darker wood, but the fact is that any of them would work in my space and for my purposes. Yet I haven’t bought a single one—yet. I’ve barely tried to. Instead, I circle around and around these contenders, taking countless photos (usually surreptitiously), and imagining their effect in and on my house. How will the piece fit in? What will it reflect about me, my taste, my decorating acumen? Does it contribute to my ideal aesthetic scheme? Does it suggest the kind of chest of drawers you’d find in an old-school beach cottage? One that was pulled from an attic of the main house? Does it exude the charm, the character, the texture, in short, the vintage je ne sais quoi that I pursue relentlessly (an ineffability which is very difficult to achieve when you don’t actually buy things)? Then–how boring–will it be useful? Will it hold the clothes or blankets destined for its compartments? Is it priced right?

Any of my darlings are safe bets, really. They’re all old and ineffable. Any one of them will vastly improve The Totally ‘80s Guest Room. But…

I can also come up with loads of reasons why the next dresser I see might possibly be a better fit—possess even more of that ineffable je ne sais quoi—which is, of course, why I walk away, time and time again, dresserless.

The problem with this strategy is, as you might well guess, there’s never any guarantee that the item you’re contemplating will still be there when you return. And you’re not at Pottery Barn; if it’s gone, it’s gone.

In fact, this happened not long ago with a piece I considered a safety, merely a backup. The price was very fair, and the dresser looked to be in fine shape. It had casters and a beveled mirror. The drawers worked smoothly. My original quibble with it may have come down to the fact that the mirror was more square than round (–or oval, my true ideal). Then, one day, in preparation for an out-of-town friend’s visit, I decided I would—finally—pull the trigger. The dresser needed a home, and I needed a dresser. The Totally ’80s Guest Room was not in the least je ne sais quoi but still totally ’80s. It just made sense. I could look forever or I could add this piece to the house, enjoy it, and get closer to not keeping the Totally ’80s Guest Room door closed all the time. I went back to the shop, headed straight for the side room where the piece lived, and—it was gone. I circled the small shop multiple times, looking in vain for the dresser, figuring someone had simply rearranged things. But no, after two solid years, someone—finally—beat me to it. I walked away—again, still—dresserless.

Once it’s gone, it’s gone.

There’s something to that. The stakes are high at a curiosity shop. Knowing you can’t simply order another just like it, that the exact inventory won’t be refreshed, that there are no guarantees. Walking away, hemming and hawing, mulling it over too long (my special fortes) can have consequences. And, of course, once that particular dresser was no longer available, none of the other darlings on my list seemed quite as–ineffably–good.

But has this loss changed my shopping habits? Has it helped me pull the trigger on other items since? Not in the least. Because it’s precisely those high stakes, the thrill of the hunt, the one-of-a-kind no-guaranteedness of the curiosity shopping experience that I’m after. Perhaps even more than a less Totally ’80s Guest Room.