Game face and Riley and Saline and Stuff

As I drove home from class yesterday, after taking a midterm that successfully annihilated any possibility of me operating at full capacity for the remainder of the afternoon, I had one thing on my mind: Game Face. Yesterday marked the day of the year that I dread more than any other. The day for which I have specifically created a small compartment inside my brain labeled “Megan’s Optimistic willpower and Strength- Do not open until March 2nd.” I have been working on filling this compartment all year, knowing full well that my need for such optimistic willpower and strength will far outweigh any of my preconceived ideas of what the day may hold.

As I pulled into my garage, my mission was clear- gather all necessary items for game day, put on my uniform, and hit the road. It was go time. Well, at least until I remembered that I had to drop off some pictures at Wal-Mart, which was an obvious necessity. For the past few months, my husband and I have spent countless hours ensuring the complete overhaul of our living room- and I mean complete. Naturally, placing new and updated photos in our picture frames was to be the much-anticipated final step of this overhaul, which I simply could not wait another day for. So, Wal-Mart it was!

Sitting in front of the Fuji machine in Wal-Mart’s newly improved photo department, my mind was momentarily able to escape the certain chaos that awaited me. I finished ordering my pictures, all the while remaining painstakingly conscious of the time. I pulled my memory stick from the machine and quickly slipped it back into my purse. Knowing I didn’t want to be late, I quickly grabbed a cheap ink cartridge for our crazy-thirsty printer….found the shortest check-out line, and bolted out the door.

Back behind the wheel of my car, my mind returned to the inevitable fate that awaited me. I drove home to meet my husband and grabbed a few more necessary items before the two of us jumped back in the car. Necessary items? Check. Game face? Check. Teammate? Check. It was go time. The day was finally here, and it was time for the contents of my special compartment to be utilized. It was…my friends…tax day.

Tax day for me is like making the decision to get my dog neutered. It’s horrible. I look at Riley and realize that he has no idea what he is about to endure…yet it is inevitable. The day is fast approaching when he will be lured into a seemingly luxurious room with treats and friends and nice people wearing white coats…only to find that they are out to take something from him. Something that has become an integral part of his daily existence. Something, that makes him who he is. I feel like Riley on tax day. Like I am being lured into a nicely decorated room with well-meaning professionals whose teeth are too white to be real and who offer me candy and little trinkets for my time- like neon colored plastic cups for example. I LOVE neon colored plastic cups! They know how to lure me in. But then…before I have the chance to finish my 51st Werther’s Original…they tell me what I’m really there for. And as I sign my life away at the bottom of the page, suddenly my plastic neon cups just don’t seem worth it anymore. Yes, I loathe tax day. Fortunately, unlike Riley, I am able to take the next few months to rebuild my loss. Before I know it, I will be the same Megan Taylor I was on March 1st…pre tax day. Riley…my poor baby… isn’t so lucky.

But as I sit here today, typing out my tax day dance for the world to see, something inside of me is telling me that I sound more than a bit ridiculous. Not just because of my exaggerated use of adjectives or my lofty use of metaphor (comparing my predicament to my dog losing his manhood may not have been the most logical choice), but simply because I have actually chosen to denote a significant portion of this afternoon’s brain power to telling you about my experience. Because the fact that I have done so tells me much more about myself than I believe I am prepared to hear.

I have heard it said, “You can tell what is most important to a man by observing what he allocates his money…and most importantly, his time…to.” Hmm. And I have just spent more than a useful amount of time typing out a retrospectively trivial experience of mine. But I think what bothers me most is not that I took a break from work for a moment to divulge my complete and utter dislike of the American tax system, but that I have allowed tax day to hold a significant enough place in my life that I found it necessary to tell you about it. Because if I am being honest, I must admit that I am more like Riley than I would care to concede. Because when my accountant flashes her fake white teeth and highlights the always-larger-than-expected number at the bottom of my tax return…my stomach drops, my face heats up, and my eyes literally fill up with some type of saline-liquid. (Some would call it tears, but I’m just not ready to admit that quite yet.) Because just like the nice man in the white coat has taken something from Riley…something that made him who he is…something has been taken from me. Something (imagine me saying this through clenched teeth- because that is what it feels like), that has made me who I am.

And I hate that. I hate that they have taken it from me, yes. But more than that, I hate that I hate that they have taken it from me. I hate that I have failed at keeping my purpose true, and that I have succumbed to the American dream. The fact that signing the bottom of my tax return made my eyes liquidy produces the same effect now as I realize what that means. As I realize where my heart is. As I realize what my priorities are.

I say that I want my life to be about hope…but is it? To be about CHANGE (not pennies and nickels and dimes) but real and lasting change…but is it? And most importantly…I say that I want my life to be about love…but is it? Or is it about some deranged depiction of love that is so far removed from my purpose? Am I simply hiding behind my designer jeans and busy schedule…annoyed at the handicapped homeless man who can’t cross the street quick enough? Am I? I believe that I am. And forcing my fingers to type out those words brings forth the saline liquid once again. I believe that I am. And so, world, as I send my scattered and saline-infused thoughts out to you I ask…what can I do to change this? What can I do to remember my purpose and to return my focus to love? Because I don’t want to be annoyed at the homeless man anymore. I don’t want to spend an entire year filling up my special compartment for tax day. And most of all, I want to remember that there really is more to my tiny little life than I think.