It’s all so taxing
The wise old saying dictates something about staying away from politics and religion in a friendly conversation. But if you want to be my friend, don’t talk about finance -- especially at tax time. Like the 3-year-old who bolts from his mother’s grasp when she attempts to corral him for a spoonful of cough medicine, I run from investment discussions and 1040-form forums whenever I encounter them.
When the words “fed” or “capital gains” slide into any verbal exchange, I revert to the bimbo who is looking right at you but is really wondering which strappy sandals will go with her new black skirt. Investment planning and reporting don’t just sail right over my head; the details can’t even pass through because my fingers are plugging my ears to block the bullish babble at the dinner table.
If I can attempt to increase my earning potential by systematically organizing a numbers strategy before purchasing a lottery ticket, why can’t I talk about finances?
Because it should be like a Monopoly game, where it all comes down to a roll of the dice. You collect and you’re done -- no forms, no late payments. Growing up, whenever I played I was the master of my own success or demise. I would look around the board and, based on my competitors’ visible capital, as well as my own simple, cold, hard cash, I could purchase, charge rent and collect with just as much chance of winning as anyone else. No one was at my side analyzing the viability of the B&O; Railroad or the electric company.
Today, before starting a round of Monopoly, experts and pundits would have to first predict the future of the hotel industry on a failing Baltic Avenue or an overpriced Park Place. And I would have to leave the room indecisive and unsure, unable to make my move.
I’m not the only one who suffers from this malady. Laguna Niguel psychotherapist Cathy Weinstein has experience in dealing with this form of what she terms “financial aversion behavior,” and she herself is a victim of it. “The financial phobia is real. It’s fear of the unknown, of impending doom and that you may have to take responsibility for it.
“I throw out every statement that comes in the mail -- too much information,” Weinstein says. “If I don’t know, then, like the person who doesn’t go to the doctor for a checkup, I can’t discover or admit something might be wrong.”
I can relate. Monthly statements that rival any mathematics master’s thesis arrive in envelopes that I open just long enough to read the bottom line -- what’s my balance? I quickly and efficiently three-hole punch all 16 pages, and store them in my “Stocks” binder (Who says I can’t manage my portfolio?) after which I return to my real goal for the day: completing the crossword puzzle.
Although my father purchased stocks for me some years ago, I can’t bring myself to listen to his advice. I’d rather have a root canal than read those annual reports that clog my mailbox. I turn my taxes over to a professional as fast as I can get the check written (I don’t even want to drive the finished envelope to the post office).
Meanwhile the onslaught continues. When proxy ballots surface on the kitchen counter, I don’t open the envelope, and my disparaging father shakes his head as I deftly toss expensive glossy tabloids detailing corporate meetings and year-end goals into the recycling bin while poring over retail store catalogs. (If I invest in the Sundance Co., would they invite me to the stockholders’ meeting hosted by Robert Redford?)
So as my father tries to discuss real estate ups and downs, current banking trends or his frustration over the power of analyst predictions and April madness, I start to softly hum.
In the meantime, when the broker calls our house and asks for me, I am suddenly in the shower washing my hair for the second time that morning. If I have to answer the ring, I always tell him to give it up -- that when my father dies I’m selling everything, putting the money under the mattress and living on tuna fish.
As I unplug the phone, I cut him off in mid-sentence -- something about buying shares in an albacore packing company and not having to report it to the government.
Sorry, I have to go try on some sandals.
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Kathleen Clary Miller is a freelance writer based in Orange County.
