If You Take A Walk, I'll Tax Your Feet

The bullets dripped from my furrowed brow. I could not wring my hands for they held the white cardboard box containing my financial existence for the past three years. The lump in my throat was pride with a bittersweet aftertaste of shame. I clumsily opened the large dark wood door to the entrance of my new accountant.

For the past eight or so years I had taken great honor to legally nip and tuck my taxes effectively. 2005 looked like a good income year for us, but a couple of poor decisions were biting our wallet, leaving only a remaining sliver for this new year. I had been expecting to pay a substantial amount to dear old Uncle Sam. I had saved conservatively all year long, however, I was disturbed by the outrageous figure my trusty tax software was screaming for me to pay.

It was the sinking feeling of a sure bet that fails right before your eyes. It was a low punch to my manhood. I was desperate when I completed my home and business tax papers. I nearly cried. I fretted to fathom witnessing the tears my wife upon explaining my findings to her. I had no idea that my return could show such an exuberant amount of money on the computer monitor. In my head, I sounded like a bad attorney commercial, "I needed help, and fast." What I was attempting to convey to the step-by-step, do-it-yourself, handy-dandy software was not possible, at least not with my limited vocabulary and understanding of convoluted real property tax laws.

So I gathered my receipts, forms, letters, previous tax papers, envelopes, and folders and neatly organized them into my newly purchased box, and called a stranger to literally pull me from this dark hole.

Long story made short; the fee administered to save me thousands of dollars seemed like a charity donation today. I can sleep tonight. I can laugh again. I can eat.

Here's to chewable pride and tasty humility!