April has arrived, which means flowers are blooming, pollen is plotting revenge, and the federal government is once again peering into my wallet like it left something in there.
Yes, it’s Tax Day — that magical time of year when otherwise calm, reasonable adults begin using phrases like “itemized deduction” and “estimated payment” while staring into the middle distance.
I have long believed the IRS doesn’t actually want your money nearly as much as it wants you slightly confused and emotionally winded.
This year I filed early. Not because I am responsible, mind you, but because through a rare alignment of the financial planets, I was due a refund. When the government owes you money, you don’t dawdle. You file like you’re trying to catch the last helicopter out of town.
If you’re one of the many Americans who instead owes money, I imagine you are currently involved in what experts call “advanced procrastination,” which includes cleaning out desk drawers, reorganizing paper clips, and briefly considering a new life identity in Belize.
Talk to any accountant — assuming you can find one who is still upright and not communicating exclusively through caffeine tremors — and they will tell you the same thing. The folks who owe always appear at the last possible moment, usually carrying a shoebox full of receipts and the facial expression of someone about to explain a minor kitchen fire.
What continues to puzzle me is why filing taxes feels like assembling Scandinavian furniture without the pictures.
The government already takes a healthy nibble out of every paycheck all year long. They know what I make. They know where I live. They probably know how many times I’ve Googled “Is this deductible?” at 11:47 p.m.
I am convinced the tax code was written by a committee of very intelligent people who once got lost inside a corn maze and decided to recreate the experience in booklet form.
The IRS could simplify the entire process down to four lines:
Line 1: How much did you make?
Line 2: How much did we already take?
Line 3: What’s the difference?
Line 4: Try not to cry while sending it in.
There. Efficient. Humane. Minimal weeping.
My own taxes are usually simple enough that I do them myself, although the experience often feels like a do-it-yourself mugging conducted with polite paperwork.
I also don’t wait until the last minute, even when I owe. I prefer to get unpleasant things over with quickly — taxes, dental visits, and conversations about the thermostat.
Because let’s be honest: there is no universe in which the government suddenly announces at 4:58 p.m. on April 15, “Good news! We ran the numbers and we’re flush. Everybody keep your money this year.”
For as long as I can remember, Congress has promised to simplify the tax code. And every year the forms multiply like rabbits at a carrot convention.
At this point, the tax code has more layers than a church potluck casserole.
A friend of mine was venting recently about Washington and referred to his elected officials as “cheap politicians.”
“Cheap?” I told him. “Given what you send them every year, they may be a lot of things. But cheap ain’t on the list.”
I have made my peace — uneasy, reluctant, mildly resentful peace — with the fact that I will always pay taxes.
I don’t enjoy it, but I remind myself money isn’t everything. And even if it were, they’d tax that, too.
My View From the cheap seats 