The way I see it, most stuff fits fairly neatly into one of four areas. There's stuff I can and will do, like brushing my teeth. There's stuff I can do but won't, like changing the oil. There's stuff I can't do, but would like to, like running with the bulls (OK, maybe I wouldn't really like to do that quite as much as I think).
Then, at the far bottom right of this four-box diagram is the cleaned-fish-left-out-in-the-sun-for-a-week collection of things I can't and wouldn't want to do for love, money or a brand-new Maserati.
And at the very tip-top of that collection of awful offal is the king stinker of all, the generator of nightmares, cold sweats and much wagon falling-off.
I hate doing taxes.
Now, let's back up just a step here, or at least past the point where someone starts throwing around terms like "audit." While I'm not crazy about it, I don't really mind paying taxes. I mean, no one really likes it, but I'm pretty sure those highways didn't build themselves. And, of all the things that will have me waking in a panic at night, fully-funded national security isn't one of them. Or at least it's pretty far down the list, behind chupacabras and the continued popularity of the Kardashians. Neither of which can be adequately explained but certainly can't be good for anyone.
No, the idea of taxes is, if not just fine, at least not the biggest issue here. For me, the real grinder to my gears is simple yet profound. I hate to do them.
You see, actually sitting down and doing taxes highlights three of my greatest areas of opportunity, namely attention to detail, even the most basic vestige of responsibility and math.
Ask me to add two and two and I'll give you a ballpark figure. I did, in fact, register an actual score on the math portion of the ACT, but only because, apparently what they told you about taking "B" when you're in doubt is true. And I was always in doubt.
With that in mind, the precision required to actually have a number's value register in my mind long enough to determine what, if any, box it needs to be placed in and whether I should add it, subtract it or ignore it, is just not in my toolkit.
Which would be fine except that doing my taxes brings with it the added and probably imagined stress of feeling I could have an appointment for the next two to five years of my life (depending on good behavior) if I do them wrong.
Come now, you say. There are all sorts of very impressive computer programs that can do your taxes for you. To which I say, yes, as long as I have all the documents I need to fill in all those computer generated blanks that will magically help me fulfill my obligations to nation and state.
You know, the ones I threw away because I thought they were junk mail. Because pizza places and credit card companies often send you offers marked "Important Tax Documents: Don't Throw Away."
Yeah, that's the "basic vestige of responsibility" opportunity.
The fact that the Lovely Mrs. Smith has her own business means I have long since given up on doing our taxes myself. Now, we have turned that project over to actual professionals. That's certainly for the best when you consider it's only been recently that I came to realize "gross income" isn't some kind of smarty-pants accountant comment about how much money I make.
But like that line in "The Godfather III" (and is it really best to mention movies about sometimes fraudulent criminal enterprises in the same column in which you talk about doing taxes?), just when I think I'm out, they pull me back in.
Seems my kids have come to the absolutely mistaken conclusion that the same forces that allow you to think you look good in "Dad jeans" also means you can handle the U.S. Tax Code. Hate to burst bubbles, but just because we like faded denim that's roomy in the rear doesn't mean we suddenly grasp the concept of Earned Interest Income or how many deductions you should declare.
I've successfully dissuaded the oldest two from thinking I know much more about taxes than their pairing with "Death" in the Certainty Daily Double. However, I'm still having a hard time directing kids whose net income (and I know what that means now, thanks!) puts them only marginally above volunteers to head down to the local tax preparer.
So, this April, when I and everyone else involved really should know better, I'll be filling out 1040EZyawhatevers for the last two progeny. And sharing with them the words of wisdom I shared with the oldest two: namely "forget about refunds. If you don't have to pay anything, I've done my job."
And if that's not good enough for them, I'll tell them to just take "B."
Gary Smith is a recovering journalist living in Rogers.
Commentary on 03/20/2015