Carolyn J.
Rose
Over the years
I’ve developed a fairly thick skin. Things that once sent me racing to my room
in a flood of tears now rankle for a few minutes and merit a philosophical
shrug instead of a 14-tissue pity party.
At 5, not
being invited to a birthday party was the end of the world. At 15, being dumped
by the boy of my (misguided) dreams was emotional Armageddon. At 25, knowing my
mother-in-law from my first marriage didn’t care for me was more insult than
injury. At 35, disastrous dating experiences were revised from lamentable to
laughable within a few hours after the events. At 45, taking unjustified heat
from a boss made me disappointed (in said boss) rather than distressed. At 55, rejections
slips piling up from agents and editors made me more determined than dismayed.
But, a few
months short of 65, I found myself in a snit over the tone of a letter from the
government, a letter I received because I was honest and proactive, because I
acknowledged ownership of a debt before it came due and arranged to make
payments.
You’d think
those are qualities that would be recognized and reinforced. You’d think there
would be the words “thank you” somewhere among the bold type and bullet points
in the letter.
But those
words weren’t there.
Not that I
could see.
Unless it was
in teeny tiny type.
Anyway, here’s
what happened. To my surprise and delight, sales of my e-books have been
brisk—not fantastic, but brisk enough that I will exceed the earnings limit set
by Social Security and have to pay money back next year. Wanting to avoid
getting a bill and having to work out a payment plan, I went to the nearest
Social Security office and explained the situation, making a point to tell the
very helpful man behind the counter that my monthly income was unpredictable
and I wanted to set a total for the year higher than I anticipated in order to
cover my financial butt and pay homage to optimism and possibility.
VHM did the
math and arranged for my next few Social Security payments to be withheld in
order to balance my unexpected income. I thanked him and went home, feeling
proud of my forward thinking.
A few days
later, the letter arrived. “We paid you more than we should have,” it said.
“You owe us,” it said. “We must withhold your benefits,” it said. “If you
disagree,” it said, “you have the right to appeal.”
Disagree?
Appeal?
This was my
idea. Did they think I changed my mind? Did they think I’m suffering from
short-term memory loss?
I was still
ranting when Mike came home. Pulling up a chair, he listened to me vent,
keeping a straight face until I concluded with, “I should get a letter thanking
me for stepping up.”
At that he
stood, adopted his “poor baby” expression, and patted me on the head.
“It’s a
bureaucracy,” he said. “They don’t have a letter like that.”
Well, maybe
they should.
Isn't that the way that WWI started? The German bureaucracy had only one form letter to respond to a national crisis and sent it to their generals who promptly attacked the wrong country?
ReplyDeleteIf that isn't the way it happened, it's a darn good story.
ReplyDeleteWell that was obviously a little oversimpified, but the historians make WWI look like the deadly result of interlocking treaties (form letters)which required actions that weren't wholy relevant to the initial event (a murder). Hey, weren't you the high school teacher? I was just a lowly bureaucrat. No one expected me to know anything except which form to send.
ReplyDeleteThe government that sends a reprimand such as you received, rather than a warm, we-are-so-proud-you-are-one-of-us-and-it-is-people-like-you-who-make-us-happy-to-be-taking-your-money letter, is comprised of nothing but churlish varlets.
ReplyDeletePoor baby.
Churlish varlets? Wow! I'm still swooning over that one, Melanie. :) Carolyn, unfortunately, the universe (let alone the gov't) does not always reward us for our good behavior. Your friends, however do. Especially those of us who have yet to take Social Security yet. We appreciate you not emptying the account before we get there. Your experience reminds me of a story from my pal, Dave. He rescued a live mouse that his cat had caught in his house. He couldn't bear to kill it so he put it in a shoe box, drove to an open field to set it loose. He walked out to the middle of the field, bent down and gingerly opened the box lid. The mouse jumped from the box, stood for a moment getting his bearings then ran back and bit Dave's thumb before disappearing into the tall grass. No good deed goes unpunished. :)
ReplyDelete