As many of you enjoyed candlelit dinners, downed bright and bubbly valentinis and admired breathtaking bouquets yesterday, I too celebrated. Not love. Not romance. Not even with a box of chocolates. I celebrated sending my taxes off to my accountant.
No snickers allowed.
I’m a right brainer. On the Myers-Briggs scale, I’m a firm ENFP. Not a number-crunching bone in my body and my organizational system is—how to put it–let’s say loose.
So, in my first post-divorce year, to handle my own taxes was one of those looming holy %&&%% moments. I’ve been dreading it for months. I married a finance guy and it was a godsend. He handled it all. One of those things I probably should have paid more attention to—but when you’re a writer, no one expects you to handle the taxes.
I envisioned driving by my accountant’s office, throwing stray receipts and 1099s out of the car window and yelling, “Best of luck! Love you. Mean it.” On the AM of April 15.
Instead, I overnighted a package of reasonably categorized and organized information on—you guessed it—Valentine’s Day. I’ll cop to colored sticky notes and a couple of frantically scribbled lists but for the most part, I came as close to left-brainedness as I ever will. And got no scolding note from said accountant’s office staff. Phew.
Better than a box of truffles? At least equal. Victory is sweet, after all.
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