About three years ago, my mom kicked me to the curb. After years of doing my taxes for free, she told me I needed to either chip in or do ’em myself. I responded in kind, probably something with an expletive and neglecting of the reality of how it was, in fact, time for me to do it myself.
And so I did. I shopped around, found that–as a single man with no dependents–all those tax houses are (WITHOUT QUESTION) rip-offs and that you can just do it yourself. This feeling isn’t about the satisfaction of doing it on your own (although, that did feel good).
This feeling is about the moment a few weeks later, when a certain something came in the mail. You see, I’m old school. I could have just as easily had the refund deposited into an account of mine, but, I knew that would be too easy for them*. I opted, as I’m sure most people do not, to receive the paper check.
It’s a feeling certainly shared by at least one semi-pro hockey player-turned-pro golfer. I like knowing that they had to put in at least a little effort to get that to me. I like looking at that big Statue of Liberty on the check, the colors, the eagle, all that shit. It’s the closest I’ll ever have to one of those golf checks our pal Happy yearned for so dearly.
And, above all, you get to actually put in money to your account. So, that’s nice.
Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: Checking your bank statement to see how much money is in it, assuming the rent check or car payment has been processed already because of how low the number is, and then realizing, in fact, neither of those have been deducted.
*Them, of course being the government, and by extension, THE MAN.
scott spinelli 