The Taxman

It’s 1:30 am. I’ve just finished gathering all my tax receipts, travel expenses, and medical deductions and entered them on a spreadsheet. I think going to the tax accountant is worse than stepping on the scale at the doctor’s office.

Why do I do this to myself every year? Because I’m OCD and being organized is a curse. No one…I mean, no one…spends the amount of time I do getting my paperwork ready for our accountant. Everyone else is on Spring Break, drinking beer, getting a tan – but not me – I’m too afraid I’m going to miss a deduction.

George Harrison wrote “Taxman” in 1969 when he found out the Beatles would be giving away 95% of all their earnings because of a supertax that was introduced by the Labour Party in the UK? Hence the lyrics, “There’s one for you, nineteen for me.” That’s how I feel every year on April 15.

During the first few years of marriage, I waited so late to file our taxes, I was in one of the cars in line wrapped around the main post office downtown, inching along to drop my envelope in the mailbox before midnight on April 15. Postal workers even had scales and a postage meter outside by the mail drop to stamp the envelopes that were handed out the window. You remember – the 10:00 news always liked to flash a camera at the procrastinators sitting in their cars.

Then there were the ten years Hubby and I owned the golf shop. I was the bookkeeper, which was a challenge because my right-brained language-arts mind took so much longer to compute the income and loss statements. I remember talking to our accountant at that time. He kept telling us our business was doing well. And I kept asking, “Then why don’t we have any money?” He responded, “That’s because it’s hanging on the walls.” In other words, I just kept buying merchandise to sell – and “hanging it on the walls!” I had to keep my ladies happy.

Well, that’s it – I’m going to bed. My meeting with my accountant is in the morning and I have to be ready to defend my deductions.