<b>By Cherimie Crane Weatherford</b>

Standing at the entrance of the seemingly endless black hole that was the hallway to my parent’s bedroom during a strong Southern storm, explaining to my father the unfortunate misplacement of my little sister while playing Cowgirls and Indians in the woods, confessing to my third grade math teacher that it was, in fact, me who tied my unsuspecting soundly sleeping classmate to his desk — all are engraved in the fear folder of my peculiar mind. The roller coaster-like anticipation — the foreboding sound of the clicking as height increases and time before the descending dive disappears — the anticipation is almost as bad as the actual occurrence. Digging deep into the storage of strength that is carefully protected and nurtured for times such as this, I rely on sheer grit and caffeine. It is tax season, y’all.

The mounting pressure of my numerical nemesis sits ominously atop a desk that was once well organized, cloaked in seemingly innocent intent. Unable to find one more possible thing to polish, organize, paint, repaint, clean or reconfigure, I am left with the undeniable chore that is sitting still and putting together this maze of mathematics that will only result in certain depression and a big check. Avoiding the shining smiling faces that is anyone who receives the elusive creature known as a refund, I can do nothing but scowl.

Undoubtedly the state of our union necessitates the more than morsel size bite that is Uncle Sam. I believe in paying my bills; however, I do not feel that joyful payment is either a requirement or a patriotic obligation. Three-hundred and sixty-five days of hard work, missing perfectly good fishing, foregoing at least 17 pairs of heart-stopping shoes and collecting receipts in every cubby does nothing to lessen the mountain of misery that is compiling numbers.

I am more of a big picture girl; the devil is not only in the details but also in the sitting still. God understands as he is sending rain down giving me no other option but to face the arduous non-adventure.

If this taxing chore was not piled neatly before me, this article could go on and on, as I would do anything to get out of reliving every expense of 2012. Forge on I must, obscenities likely to fly, confusion eminent and questioning of working so hard certain to follow. Just as any dreaded task, the worry, the wait and the wading in the waters of excuse are worse than the task itself.
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