I opened my (broken and slightly unhinged) mailbox yesterday to find a requisite day-old WWD, an alumni magazine for a college I never attended...and a serious, official-looking envelope from the New York State Department of Taxation and Finance.
Considering I forked over, I fuck you not, thousands of dollars this month to offset my freelance paycheckies, I was floored and heartbroken to think that I needed to shell out even more cash, especially now that my bank account has balanced itself out. (As in, no longer resides at a big fat zero.) But, when I read the enclosed letter, it was like some weird irresponsibility miracle had drifted down from the skies and into my hands: I had accidentally overpaid taxes, and was refunded a credit of 408 fresh, crisp dollars.
Allow me to reiterate that I am truly so horrifically bad at addition and remembering things — first-grade, PlaySkool-level skills, mind you — that I paid too many taxes. I didn't get a tax refund, but a refund FROM. TAXES.
Being as it is so absolutely bizarro and absurd that I spaced on paying such a large sum of money earlier in 2012, I, unsurprisingly, also spaced about the check and its actual physical worth. That is, until I recounted the tale while shivering in line outside the Proenza Schouler Sample Sale this morning, and had a complete, out loud OHMYGOD moment upon realizing that I was $408 bones richer with cash that has never been accounted for.
Now, I don't want to make it sound like I had a stack of Benjamins burning a hole in my flannel shirt pocket, but while combining an absolute, dark, sad hate for shopping with a need to finally man up and dress like an adult, I stumbled upon these crinkly tinfoil-silver bad boys and just couldn't say no.
Were they cheap? God no, but technically, they didn't cost me any *real* money, so it's all a wash. A beautiful, sparkly, shiny, tight-fitting but still totally wearable to all formal events I can now feasibly attend wash. I feel like a whole new world of operas and crudite-passed shindigs hath opened up for me now that these are tucked safe and sound into my closet full of bizarro patterns and minimal amounts of solid colored clothing. Mess-ups are a way of life and mistakes are bound to happen, but every time I put these on to go to a frou-frou fancy dinner, I'll remember the time a little payment fuckup yielded a pair of silver foxes.
And, of course, ask someone to help me calculate the tip.