The best purchase I ever made cost eleven dollars at a yard sale: a battered slow cooker with somebody else’s initials Sharpied on the lid. I bought it out of pity. It has since outlived two apartments, one relationship, and at least three fancier appliances that promised to change my life and then died quietly under the counter.

Here is the thing about a great purchase: it is never the one you researched for six weeks. The laptop I agonized over is fine. The mattress with the hundred-night trial is fine. But the slow cooker asks nothing of me. I throw in whatever is about to expire, leave for eight hours, and come home to a house that smells like someone competent lives there.

Eleven dollars for the daily illusion that I have my life together. Somewhere out there, M.R., whoever you are, thank you. Your initials are in good hands.