Every year I struggle with that dreaded annual chore.
Yes, I’m talking about taxes. Maybe, if I were more Zen, I’d put on some soothing music, om, and mindfully tend to my numbers. Nothing would distract me. I’d inhale exemptions and exhale deductions.
Oh well, such is not the reality for a mere mortal like me. Truth be told, I’d choose just about anything over doing my taxes. Getting a tooth extracted. Sanding the floor on my hands and knees. Even pooper-scoopering my backyard.
Mind you, I know that taxes are nothing compared to life’s major miseries, like death and disease. It’s like the difference between being bitten by a gnat and attacked by a rattlesnake. Still, I can’t think of anyone who puts out the welcome mat for a swarm of no-see-ums.
This year, I played “Taxman” by the Beatles to get myself in the mood for my pesky task. The song always makes me think of George, my favorite Beatle. Its bouncy beat and rebellious spirit got me dancing around my kitchen.
Once the song ended, I opened up the Tax Workbook my accountant sent me in the mail. Flipping through the pages, I quickly came to a dead end. Where should I put expenses for my new Airbnb?
I emailed my accountant, expecting a simple answer like Page 15, Item 1, Line 2. Instead, he told me to tally up my receipts for heat, utilities, internet and such, which I hadn’t thought to keep in my Airbnb folder.
Ah, if only I could turn back the clock to the days my late husband, Fred, did our taxes! All I needed to do back then was stuff receipts for printer paper and cartridges in a yellow and white checked canister in the dining room. I’d hear Fred upstairs, swearing at TurboTax, but feel no guilt at all. After all, I cleaned the bathroom and did the laundry.
But those days were gone forever. I needed to stop acting like a damsel in distress. Start being a strong woman. A financial literate. The kind who make Suze Orman proud.
My tough love lecture, however, did me little good. My inner child insisted on being able to do whatever she wanted whenever she wanted it. Didn’t she deserve some joy after all those years of anguish and grief? Taxes could wait.
I luxuriated in my favorite time-wasters. Binging on CNN. Reading about my favorite rock stars. Petting Desi the dog.
Then guilt rained down on me. I needed to get to work on my taxes.
No way, my inner hippie argued back. Why fret about tax prep when people were dying in Ukraine? I started researching charities.
Once I decided to donate to UNICEF, my long-slumbering voice of financial reason spoke up. Idealism and pragmatism need not pull me in different directions. It was time to get real.
From my reading of “The Life Changing Magic of Tidying Up” by Marie Kondo, I knew that a small investment of time in organizing could change life for the better. Too bad tax prep didn’t exactly spark joy.
My financial records had surreptitiously found their way into four different places: filing cabinet, checkbook, online banking and Airbnb site. Why hadn’t I developed an efficient, all-in-one system? Hmmm, maybe next year.
Meanwhile, with the clock ticking, I pondered which was worse: going through 12 months of bank statements or trying to lose weight. It was a toss-up.
Perhaps a weight-loss technique called “temptation bundling,” which paired a dreaded activity with a favored one, would help me deal with my tax woes. I decided that, if I made it out of my online banking alive, I’d reward myself with a new episode of “The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel.”
Columns of numbers on my laptop screen turned into a gray blur before my eyes. Blink. I needed to separate deductible expenses from my endless stream of miscellaneous Amazon purchases.
Hours later, with my fingers cramped from jotting down figures in a tiny notebook (yes, I’ll get a bigger one next year,) I treated myself to an episode of “The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel,” in which the brash young comic, Midge, performs at a strip club. She’s not exactly the type to excel at personal finances. She’d probably just hand over her tax prep to her manager Susie, who’d gamble away her earnings.
Financial semi-literates like me can take comfort in the Midge Maisels of the world. Although financially challenged, Midge is determined to succeed in life. If she can keep plugging away, so can I.
Joan Axelrod-Contrada is a writer who lives in Florence. She writes a monthly column for the Gazette that runs on the second Friday of the month. Reach her at joanaxelrodcontrada@gmail.com.