In the end, it wasn’t any one person who helped me navigate my taxes, despite my best efforts to enlist human help. I tried. Honestly. Three people, in fact, each of whom produced a unique set of numbers, none of which were wholly accurate. This phenomenon spoke more to our labyrinthine tax code, I think, because everybody was well-meaning and seemingly knowledgeable, though the key word here is “seemingly.”
No, it was TurboTax itself that saw me through this harrowing ordeal. More to the point, it was an advertisement to upgrade to the Premier edition that caught my eye and really spoke to me. Ads, least of all online ads, seldom do that, but this message materialized at just the right time and, unbelievably enough, delivered on its promise to the letter. I may very well sound like a pitch myself, but the program really did make my investments far more digestible.
What was especially surprising was the discovery of a new tax shelter. Previously, I had relied on a traditional IRA to reign in the amount due, but this tactic is no longer viable. The property tax deduction helped somewhat. It was tithing, however, that put me above water. Yes, tithing. In prior years, I had opted for the standard deduction, but I took a crack at itemizing this year, and in a few clicks, I was in the black. Tithing’s been ruined for me, though, because for every subsequent check I write now, I’ll be thinking about the monetary benefit. Perverse, yes, but I know now, so I can’t unthink it. Should I even continue, I wonder? It’s strange, when such a lofty construct crash-lands so close to home. It’s like you’re sitting in church, only to have the pews slide away to reveal you were actually in a Chipotle all along.
During my commute this morning, I ran into–figuratively!–two deer, the latter of which was headed straight for the side of my car, until it seemingly jumped over the trunk at the last moment. This brought the total deer encountered this month to three, not that I’m trying to set any records here, thank you very much. In fact, I’ve even started avoiding certain routes, because although the Saab is supposedly elk-proof, it’s a claim I’m happy to take at face value.
What really struck me was how, just three days ago, I was in a place completely devoid of deer: a whirlwind trip to Morningside Heights, right down the street from Harlem, for a wedding. If you think this is going to be a love note to New York, let me disabuse you of this theory immediately. It’s been years since I’ve been back to the city, and in the interim I had developed a patchwork recollection of why I’m always loathe to return. But to experience everything again firsthand, well, no patchwork recollection can hold a candle to that.
To be fair, it wasn’t just loathing. I was also more cognizant of why things are the way they are. I’ve been told on occasion that I display the New York neurosis, a kind of grim optimism, and I have a better appreciation for why this may be the case. All the pieces of the puzzle were there. The layer of smog above Long Island clearly visible during final descent. The filthy bathrooms at JFK. The worn infrastructure. The way both taxi drivers deftly wove through hair-raising traffic.
Everything fit together, in a way, and pointed toward the fact that New York is a contraption designed to contend with a dense mass of people. Traffic really isn’t so bad, then, because how else would millions of people filter through the thoroughfares every day? By the same token, you can’t really expect a public bathroom in an international hub airport to be remotely clean. The one piece that didn’t fit was cost of living, which was psychologically jarring. I’ve been spoiled by southern living, frankly. I mean, $16 for a plate of nachos? Now, my eyes may have deceived me, but I believe there was a generous layer of chile con fuck you slathered on top of it.
I’d never admit it to her, not in a million years, but I’ve been acting on Pound Cake’s exhortation to “put myself out there” with varying degrees of success. She dispensed this nugget a while ago and at the time, I imagine, it likely appeared as if it were falling on deaf ears. I may have been temporarily deaf, in fact, as a response mechanism to her eternal optimism, which I can only describe as marrow-deep. But I’ve been markedly more social lately–or moderately less anti-social, if we want to half-empty this thing–and it’s a shift of self that even led to a stake in the ground for my career.
By no means have I become extroverted. Far from it. What’s changed is my capacity for community, a heightened ability to contend with people, bars, and alcohol, along with a keener sense of when I’ve reached these thresholds. Last weekend, I agreed to an uptown trip–dinner, then a karaoke bar–with a promise to myself that I’d pay close attention to exactly how I’d fare in these situations, not unlike how a black box recorder might function during a disaster.
There was no catastrophe, fortunately. Dinner went well enough, and it transpired exactly as it should’ve–as a low-key way to get to know some new people, and oh God I can’t believe I just said that. When it came time for the bar, a detestable venue made even more unsavory by the specter of karaoke, I steeled myself for calamity. But you know what? I negotiated the press of flesh, booze, and noise, and I packed away a third Vodka Red Bull with nominal consequence to my faculties.
After about an hour, I decided to call it quits. The karaoke stage had yet to be fully activated, which struck me as the perfect time to bail. I was the first to leave, but it didn’t matter. I shook hands, explained that bars are best for me in measured doses, and then I disappeared. “Put yourself out there.” It’s a ridiculous mantra, on one hand, and yet there’s a unique sense of agency baked into the phrase. There were indeed times when I felt like an outside force willing a set of limbs not entirely my own into some foul configurations of reality. What’s next? I answered a call to help resurrect the local chapter of the alumni association, and it kicks off with happy hour on the 28th. I can’t wait to dive into more things I dislike, optimistically speaking.