I consider myself to be much more responsible about my finances than my younger, ignorant, broke-ass self used to be. I have retirement and savings accounts that I contribute to and monitor regularly. I’m slowly educating myself on how to maximize those savings and where I can stand to diversify my accounts. I save a good chunk of my income for long- and short-term needs, apparently at a rate far above the national average according to a segment on last weekend’s Marketplace Money podcast (1% — I knew the average was low, but still). I’m building an emergency fund and sock away a bit for my nieces every month. I also check a different credit report every four months, balance my accounts each week, and track nearly every dime that comes my way.
I should temper this by adding that I’m hardly angelic about it, or sane consistent, even: I can easily drop a c-note while shopping for household items, I sometimes act weirdly cheapskate-ish about a $4 coffee, and I struggle to allow myself to purchase big-ticket items that I’ve been actively saving for. So I strive for a more comfortable balance between my persistent, deep-rooted fear of being broke again (for whatever the reason: accident, irresponsibility, job loss) and enjoying my money with wild abandon.
One area where I still struggle to be more responsible is with my tax returns. Last night, there I was: preparing my taxes at the last possible minute. Again. It’s a habit I’ve not successfully shaken since filing my first return some fifteen years ago: I clearly remember my then-boyfriend’s best friend asking, with great derision, just what the hell I was thinking as we creeped along in an endless line of cars at the post office at nine p.m. on tax day.
I was shamed, of course, because I had delayed our evening of hanging out and doing a whole lot of nothing in particular together for hours on end. Because all that hanging out was just so pressing.
But I had not been shamed enough to gather my paperwork — a single, tiny W2 and a simple form — in order to file earlier in the tax season that followed, or the one after that. The single instance when I did file early — and I mean really early, like first-week-of-February early — was the year I decided to get smarter about my money and began aggressively taking responsibility for the mess it was in.
Otherwise, each April since has been marked by a last-minute filing hell. It’s maddening, to be sure. Additionally, I feel a bit dumb for waiting as long as I did this time, as I am actually getting some money back. It’s spilt milk and all at this point; I’ll get it right next year.
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