I’ve decided that from now on I will embrace tax time.
If I get stuck on a convoluted tax form filled with Rumsfeldian unknown unknowns, I will accept it as a moment of Zen, staring into an emptiness I cannot begin to understand.
If the government sends me a message that my taxes were completed incorrectly, I will welcome it as the annual tradition it is — a family postcard from Big Brother.
And if I get audited, then I shall enjoy the warm childhood memories of being curled up in the fetal position.
Taxes are all about how you look at them. I have thought on multiple occasions that, though death and taxes are two sure things in life, at least death only happens once.
But, as tax season begins, I have revised my opinion as can be seen on schedule T1-ADJ T1 Adjustment Request Form, which is attached to your copy of Metro.
I am filing my change of heart under, “If you can’t beat them, join them” because, like most people, I can’t actually improve my tax experience because I don’t understand my tax experience.
I fill out the boxes and get a response, yes, but it doesn’t mean anything to me. I might as well be shaking a Revenue Canada 8-ball that says, “All signs point to amount owing.”
Sure, I can use an accountant, but that’s just handing it off to a person who will give me advice that I will pretend to understand. I will then respond with a thoughtful “Uh-huh” that I hope adequately dresses up my actual thought, which is “Huh?”
I can’t cheat on my taxes, either. I’ve known people who would gladly write off condoms if they were sleeping their way to the top, but economic deception has never been an option for me. I couldn’t cheat on my taxes any more than I could cheat on an exam written in Sanskrit.
So all that’s left is accepting my plight. I will think of my taxes in a positive light, because what other choice do I have? I see it this way now: I go into a tax office, I give a strange person papers that I don’t understand, and in return that person usually gives me hundreds, sometimes thousands, of dollars in return.
Pretty sweet, right?
If this new approach doesn’t work out for me, I’ll be in the fetal position. It’s my own choice of tax shelter.