Be Brave Project, Day 46; Fruits of Being Brave.

I think one of the first things I did as my opening act in the Be Brave Project was to go to the New York State Department of Motor Vehicles on 34th Street.

Brave indeed.

The entire outing was pretty much a humiliating fiasco in the way that urban endeavors even in the most glamorous cities can be: When I was living in say, Chicago, trips to the DMV always ended in success. . .but even if they hadn't I'd still be driving home in the splendid isolation of my car, an over sized diet soda wedged between my knees, bellowing the words to Hall and Oates' Private Eyes to the radio as I cruised along the expressway.

But in NYC I was ignored and mocked, put back out on the street, and had to jostle down 34th Street towards the 1 train. No soundtrack. And when I say 'jostle', I mean 'get shoved around'. When you're 5 foot 3 and weigh a whisker over 100 pounds, people aren't big on getting out of your way--you get a lot of handbags in the upper arm and elbows to your shoulders. This explains the popularity of the tortuous devices known as stiletto heels: They make your feet ache, but they can really do some damage to someone's ankle. Accidentally, of course.

Of course.
The size-ist bastards.

So, that hot July day I did take the subway back to 116th Street, the Columbia University stop. I hadn't done my very basic task for the day--head to the DMV, get license renewed. A chimp could have done it, provided she had her Social Security number and reading material for the 3 hour wait in line. But I hadn't been successful. . .and it made me feel like crap. I was never going to be able to do this Brave Project, it was always going to be more of the same: Me running from the mess I made of my life when I was boozing it up. And I was drinking so much partially to check out, another way of running away.

But that day I sat down on a low bench, and got out my folder. I found a phone number and I called it--I called an accountant and explained my tax situation (hadn't paid in years, was hugely terrified of what would happen, was a lush in recovery, etc. . .). By the end of the conversation I felt better than I'd felt in years. In years. I had a plan--get my financial info. for 2007 organized, send it to the Dream Accountant, keep doing same for earlier years until done.

Skip forward a few months to an entirely different situation: I walked into my new building, with its clickety-clickety bank floors and concierge at the desk, and pulled mail from my mailbox. There was an envelope from the IRS.

But nowadays, or for the last 3 months, there's always been an envelope from the IRS, and they all say the same thing: You Owe Money. They say it nicely, which truly was a relief since I sort of though the IRS would be the epistolary equivalent of a drill sergeant ("You useless piece of shit--drop and give me 1400, dollars that is!"). But it is always the same.

Not yesterday. Yesterday the envelope was smaller and rather more cheaply made than they usually are. And it wasn't squishy, so there were no envelopes or lists of debts. Hm.

The elevator skimmed its way up the building, 8th floor, 10th floor, 12th floor.
I tore open the envelope, and I was floored.

It was a check for $1921.00.

I'd paid enough, it seems.