I went shopping today.

I walked into a bustling Westfield and decided to treat myself.

And you know what I came out with?

An iron and a financial self-help book.

I wanted to buy more shirts I can get away with wearing at work because I generally have like three that I cycle between at the moment.

You could say this is because I have a “work uniform” that I have pre-arranged minimise the number of choices I have to make to prevent decision-making fatigue. You might argue that this is being smart. That I’m a productive, synergising wizard who deserves a write up in an aspirational magazine that advertises $647 desk chairs and $70 watering cans (yeah, I saw an ad for one costing that much the other day and it infuriated me – just another blister on the fiery ulcer of rage building up in the pit of my stomach).

But in actual fact, it’s because my wardrobe is still a system of washing baskets and a suitcase underneath my bed. They’re kind of like those storage drawers built into fance beds (a savvy friend of mine has one and it’s fabulous) except there are extremely dysfunctional and in no way stylish. The thing with these baskets is that I can’t see what’s buried underneath, so I end up just gabbing what’s near the top of the pile. And whatever is worn is then washed and stuffed back in the basket right on top again. And so, the circle of life continues until the cheap shirt is so worn and thin that it becomes inappropriate to wear in public.

Another factor in the cycle of shirty monotony is the fact that I didn’t have an iron, but owned a few shirts that needed pressing. I’ve always been someone who preferred to buy clothes that didn’t really need ironing. One of the many perks of op shopping is that most of the items have been worn and ironed to death and snap back to their ironed form after a wash. So most of my clothes are able to get by without ironing provided to hang them the right way on the washing line.

But in my apartment life a trendy, high-density area, there is no room for a washing line. And I have no iron.

So the pool of shirt options is even more limited.

I was going to buy a new shirt.

But then I realised if I bought an iron, I’d be able to wear the three or four shirts sitting at the bottom of the clothes basket.

I was making a sustainable choice.

I also picked up a copy of this financial planning self help book my friend recommend to my broke arse.

I walked right by the decorative homewares section. I didn’t look twice at the Lindt bunnies. I didn’t even stop at the trashy magazine aisle.

And here’s the kicker: I paid for the two most grown up items you could possibly find in a department store which has a profit margin bolstered purely on impulse buys from women aged 25-50 looking to fill an empty hole in their lives with succulents and candles in loyalty card points.

That means that my clothes iron and self-help book were essentially free.

I think I’ve turned a corner.