This past Sunday, I finally did our taxes. I normally look forward to this the way young children pine for Christmas, or Ben Wyatt's almost-accounting colleagues look forward to playing Ledgerman in Cones of Dunshire. I assumed the fact that I liked taxes was just my inner-nerd making itself known, or maybe more evidence that I should have majored in Accounting instead of English. But this year I found myself kind of hating the task. Because this spring, for the first time ever, I owe Uncle Sam money instead of getting a refund.