You know you’ve got some problems when you stop and question whether an 18 cent purchase is too decadent.

 

I’m not kidding.

 

Today I stood in the supermarket debating whether it was a wise financial choice to buy marked down flowers. Severely marked down. I’m talking EIGHTEEN BLOODY CENTS. At this point the supermarket surely can’t be any profit from that bunch of vegetation. It’s probably actually costing the store more in terms of employee effort at that price – there’s sticking on the discount sticker, scanning the item and then putting them in a bloody bag. That’s the 18 cents right there.

 

Sure, they were a bit on the wilty side, and some of them looked like the plant equivalent of Ezma from The Emperor’s New Groove, but surely they were worth at least the full 20 cent coin. They were still doing their job, which is to sit quietly and distract us from the blisteringly depressing realties of life with their presence – like potted cacti or women.

 

I mean, who even decided on the number of cents these leafy disappointments were worth? Why did they land on 18? Did they think that 17 was too cheap, but reasoned that 19 was too steep? Was it a cheap ploy to scam back two cents in the vague hope someone would use actual physical tokens of currency to pay for them? When there’s no such thing as a two cent coin anymore, you really do have to wonder whether these supermarket giants haven’t conspired with the government to scrap the metallic disc in a bid to get out of having to give change for figures such as these. They’re all in this together I tell you!

 

Or was this some kind of sick psychological experiment? Were the flowers marked down so heavily so scholars could keep a tally of the people who chose to buy the haggard but very reasonably priced decorative items, and draw conclusions from our similarities? Did buying them mean I was forever to be a member of the loser group?

 

All this was going through my head as I stood there at the buckets of flowers actually pondering whether I could justify the purchase. I saw there were two bunches in the bucket for 18 cents, so I grabbed them both. Clutching them in my arm, I began interrogating myself with the gusto of Iced T in the questioning room fresh off the back of a dramatic arrest scene.

 

Was I being too decadent?

You already have a bunch for 30 cents in your basket, should you really be spending more?

How can you live with yourself, man?

 

Even though the pollen from the very, very ripe flowers was now yellowing my hair, I put them back. I was being silly. I was being reckless with the contents of my purse. Who did I think I was, one of those Jenner sisters?

 

Thirty seconds later I picked them up again, after the thought struck me that I probably wouldn’t be able to change my mind again and come back for them, because some other savvy bastard would have snatched them up. I also reminded myself that it was going to cost me less than 40 cents to brighten up my room and, by extension, my meaningless existence.

 

I decided that I needed to follow my heart if I was ever going to find happiness. I had to listen to my instincts. I needed to trust myself. Hesitation was only going to slow me down, and let opportunities dissolve right in front of me. The time for boldness was now.

 

Two minutes later, I put a whole wheel of brie in my basket.