The Tax Return Siren Song

Tax season is upon us. And so begins my annual Don Quixote quest to convince people that receiving a large tax return is not, repeat not, a good thing.

Ahem.

Every week, bi-week, or month, depending on your pay schedule, your government takes away a portion of your paycheck in taxes. They do this so you don’t have to pay them all in one big lump sum which would prove too much of a financial burden for most of us who aren’t the best at saving up resources.

It also makes the hit we take seem painless, since they forcibly remove a chunk first and then allow us to have whatever is left over when they are finished. In terms of nature, think of us as a pack of hyena taking down a zebra, then the big lion comes and eats a chunk of our zebra, leaving us whatever is left when they’re full. I believe the fastest way to tax reform would be to let people have their entire paycheck so they have to write the government that big whopping check each time and see just how much is taken away from them, but that’s another post.

Many people allow the government to keep far, far too much of their paychecks all year long so that at year’s end they receive the over payments back in the form of a tax return. Many refer to this as the forced government savings program.

This means that many, many people are giving the United States government a completely interest free loan, every year, out of their hard-earned money. I personally do not like the United States government enough to give them a single penny more than what they insist upon taking away from me by force, even if they give some of it back later.

Ted and I have a goal of owing and receiving exactly zero each year at tax season. Sometimes we owe a little, sometimes we get a little back, but usually we come pretty close to our goal and that’s great. If we achieve it, that means we haven’t given the government anything that they didn’t demand from us and instead had control of as much of our own earnings as possible all year to do with as we deem appropriate, not as the government sees fit.

Listen, if you want to save up money that’s fantastic. It’s a great idea. Go to a bank and tell them how much you’d like to save up by year’s end, divide that amount by 52 and have that portion of your paycheck shunted into the account that you control and that the bank (unlike the government) will pay you interest for.

As for me, I won’t be giving my government a red cent more than that which they take from me at gunpoint. Think I’m being dramatic? Try not paying your taxes and see who comes knocking on your door.

Diamonds are Forever Wasted Money

I have a 1.5-carat emerald cut diamond solitaire engagement ring. It previously belonged to my great-grandmother Henrietta Murray, and since my now-husband (then boyfriend) had to ask my parents for their permission to give it to me, pretty much everyone in my family knew I was getting engaged before I did.

When I look at it now, I think of how much I love both my Grammy and my husband, so it has great sentimental value to me. That is, in fact, its only real value. If I tried to sell it, it would be worth very little, maybe a couple hundred dollars.

I don’t wear it often. I find it clunky to have a big rock dangling off the back of my hand and I tend to fret about losing it. Also I think my hands just look weird with traditional girl things attached to them – like sparkly rings or red nail polish. It’s just not me.

I think most people know these days that the DeBeers Company invented the diamond engagement ring pretty recently in the 1940’s via what was possibly the most effective marketing campaign in modern history.

Now, looking back at my engagement, I’m relieved that Ted didn’t waste money neither of us had to purchase a worthless and common sparkly rock that might have been mined via abusive child labor practices. I’m also disappointed that we perpetuated the marketing tactic at all, and that neither of us knew enough at the time to shirk the tradition altogether.

Wasting money does not prove love. Even saying “I love you,” does not prove love. I often say of my husband that of all the romantic interests in my life who said, “I love you,” he is the only one who turned those words into action. He is the one who was patient, who was kind, who did not envy, who did not boast, who was not proud. He is the one who always protected, always trusted, always hoped, and always persevered. Actions prove love, not words and not gifts.

Love takes time to show, years to build, a lifetime to cultivate, and must be tended always with faithfulness and care.

Diamonds are not even an investment. Much like cars they depreciate the moment you take them off the sales lot. If you need to spend two months’ salary to prove your love or entice someone to marry you, you’d be better served finding someone who is more attracted to your interests and personality than your bank account. If you demand an overpriced tribute to help you decide who to spend your life with, you need to seriously reevaluate your mate selection process.

Choose your mate by hours spent lying in bed laughing on a lazy Saturday morning.

Choose your mate by knowing who will lie awake all night cradling your head in their lap when you are sick.

Choose your mate by recognizing a soul that lights up in response to the same things yours does.

Choose a mate that challenges you to think and grow and stretch who and what you are, and who is challenged by you in return.

Choose a mate who is your biggest fan, and whose biggest fan you are.

Choose a mate who works as hard as you do to prioritize, tend to, and care for the delicate relationship between you. And work hard, very hard, every day. It is worth it.

These are things I have learned in sixteen years being one of the most happily married people I know. All these things are the true treasures and riches in life. A sparkly stone will sit on your hand, then sit in a box on a shelf, long forgotten.

You can’t get that money back, and it would be far better spent on building a life together than in service to a ridiculous tradition generated by a successful marketing campaign.

It’s just a rock. And not the type of rock that creates anything resembling a firm foundation for a lifetime of marriage.

Haute Lumberjack

Disclaimer: The opinions expressed here are my own only. I have neither been asked for a review nor compensated in any way by the company described herein.

I have a complicated relationship with pants. I like them and I prefer wearing them over dresses and skirts. Something about skirts just doesn’t feel correct to me. Skirts are too girly, too soft, and they make me fear the wind blowing them up where they shouldn’t be. If of the long and flowy type, the excess fabric of skirts gets tangled about my legs and stuck in car doors. I’m clumsy and I don’t need something other than my feet to get bungeed up and trip over. Pants look better to me and make me feel more secure and myself, but sadly they are usually not designed to fit nor flatter my body shape and size.

Pants are always riding up where I don’t want them or sliding down where they shouldn’t be. I’ll choose a cuff that’s so long it’s dragging on the ground over one rising up to reveal my pallid, deceased carp-colored ankle skin, but finding the happy medium between the two seems impossible. Bending over leaves me nervous, as I constantly fear a glimpse of my underwear peeking out the back of my waistband.

I realize I may be suffering from a pathological fear of showing underwear in public. The obvious solution for this would be to stop wearing it, but I digress.

My phobia realized.

Sitting and breathing in pants at the same time is not usually possible, or at least not comfortable. At the end of the day when I take them off, pants leave angry red impressions of their buttons, zippers, and waistband around the soft, squishy skin of my middle-section.

Needless to say it’s a lifelong struggle, and the struggle is very real. I am always on the hunt for a better, kinder, gentler pair of pants.

This past Saturday I found my way into a Duluth Trading Co. clothing store for the first time. A few people have recommended Duluth to me, and this past Christmas my sister gifted me with one of their no-tug tank tops which quickly became my favorite item to wear under sweaters. Still, I was hesitant as clothing and I historically don’t mix well.

The store was big, clean, bright and clearly laid out; ladies to the left and gents to the right. In the back there was a room for clearance items and a display of antique tools. Good ‘ol boy country music played gently from hidden speakers. Upon entering, I did the same thing I usually do in clothing stores: take a few steps in, glance hesitantly around and decide via mental telepathy without touching a single item of clothes that nothing would fit.

As I was about to head right back out the door my husband intercepted and gave me a gentle push toward the women’s department, telling me to take my time and that he’d be checking out shoes in the back.

I scanned the shelves in a quick, perfunctory manner, confident I’d see nothing in my size. Instead I was left puzzled. The pants sizes were listed in inches; by inseam and waist. I double-checked to make sure I was actually in the women’s section and sure enough, there were a row of bras behind me.

Instead of a meaningless and arbitrary number that means something different to every different clothing designer, Duluth sizes their women’s pants the same way they do men’s pants: by the actual inches of a person’s body. I muttered aloud, “they treat women’s clothing just like men’s,” and the woman shopping behind me gave me a bemused look.

That was shock number one. Which led me to a problem: I’ve been shopping via random, meaningless size numbers for 44 years, I have no idea whatsoever what the actual dimensions of my body are. So I just grabbed the biggest size they had in a pair of cargo pants and assumed the worst.

Additionally, there was no plus sized section. Things were sorted by type and style with all available sizes mixed in together. I’m used to getting banished to the back of stores where shameful fatties belong and a few paltry, illicit racks of plastifabric florals tangle together and on the floor. I had no idea how to even find where the few styles and sizes designated for me were. They couldn’t be mixed in up front with all the cute things and normal person clothes, could they?

Puzzled, I gathered up a sports bra and then prowled the clearance room (it’s an entire room!) for cute, baby-butt soft, stripey long sleeved shirts – again picking up the biggest size I could find in everything and presuming it would all be too small. No half-hidden plus section means no plus clothes, right?

Wrong. Shock number two came when I discovered everything I’d picked out was too big for me. Unless I’m specifically shopping a plus sized clothing store, filled entirely with brands made exclusively for plus sized women, that never ever happens.

The pants were something of a wonder. The next size down fit me and had pockets for days. At least eight of them by my count. Also a little rise of extra fabric in the back to prevent underwear flashing, as if the designer was reading my paranoid little mind. The price, I admit, gave me serious sticker shock, but since I’d been promised they would last “forever” and they did both feel and look wonderful, I wound up taking them home.

The prices of the clearance rack shirts were reasonable, and once I’d sized down appropriately I took home two of those as well.

The bras were huge. After trying on one size down, then two sizes down, I gave up. I’m sure if I kept going I’d have found one to fit but I ran out of patience. I don’t have a deep well of that where clothes are concerned.

I tried on a coat, but everything in the store was too small. Also the price was no-way bonkers too high.

Lastly, I sprung for a pair of insanely priced underwear. One pair cost what I usually pay for about ten. Much to my dismay I now have to admit is the best and most comfortable pair I own. Bastards.

Aside from the steep pricing at war with my innate cheapness, it was the easiest and most pleasant clothes shopping experience of my life. I didn’t feel guilty, or frustrated, or in any way unwelcome. And now I own comfy cute pants that are long enough and have SO MANY POCKETS.

In short, Duluth is welcoming to both straight and plus sized customers with open arms and total equality. Priced the same, mixed all in together on the same shelves, and sized in the sensible way that men’s clothing has been since forever.

Not cheap. Totally worth it.