ABOUT WOMEN
Solving mystery of birth date turns out to be taxing pursuit

By Tanya Bricking
Advertiser Staff Writer

I've always been a procrastinator.

Give me a deadline and I'll meet it. But I might wait until the last minute to do it, because I love the adrenaline rush of working under pressure.

I've learned that's not such a good feeling when it comes to filing taxes.

Oddly enough, filing taxes has made me question my very identity.

My TurboTax file wouldn't go through when I tried to send it a few days before the deadline.

The electronic filing program told me I had an error. My birth date was wrong.

Seems the Social Security Administration has my birthday logged for a month earlier than I celebrate it.

This error came up on my electronic tax form last year. I thought it was a fluke.

Actually, my first thought was: "How could it have taken so long for this problem to come to my attention?" I will be 33 this year. (I think.) Everybody always believed me when I told them my birthday.

My second thought: "Was I really born when my mother said I was?"

I called her when I first found out about this and asked. I think she thought I was on drugs or something.

I called the Social Security Administration. But I never filled out the form to correct it. It would involve my tracking down my Kentucky birth certificate (which I always thought looked like a fake) and going and standing in line somewhere.

Plus, they didn't give me a deadline.

Plus, my birthday really is when I say it is. (I think.)

Plus, maybe I could retire a month early if it turns out I'm wrong.

This year, I'm pretty sure the Social Security Administration is still wrong.

But I keep thinking back to the time my older brother told me I was adopted.

I hated the idea that people would keep secrets from me, especially my mother. (I never questioned my dad. My mom was the keeper of information in our house.)

My brother told me I was adopted by Gypsies and our mother was one of them. I believed him.

It was the '70s. My mom wore head scarves and big hoop earrings. Never mind that we bear an uncanny resemblance. I was 7, and I believed what my brother said about my life being a lie.

I hid in the garage behind his train set and let everyone think I ran away. When I finally came out, after the whole neighborhood was looking for me, I demanded to know whether I was really adopted and who was telling the truth.

My mom still tells that story. Sometimes, though, I still have my doubts.

All it takes is a little tax-filing problem to make me wonder, even for a second, if the details of my birth are what I've thought all these years.

Maybe I should finally fill out that form, dig out my birth certificate, stand in that line and get it resolved.

I have a deadline: Sometime before Tax Day, 2004.

Tanya Bricking writes about relationships for The Advertiser. Reach her at tbricking@honoluluadvertiser.com or 525-8026.