Remember when getting a tax refund meant waiting by the mailbox like a kid on Christmas morning? Except, instead of a shiny new bike, you got a government-issued check printed on shiny iridescent paper? You’d spot that official envelope, rip it open with the excitement of opening your card from Grandma (with a crisp $20 bill inside), and admire the John Hancock of some Treasury bureaucrat who probably couldn’t get a table at Applebee’s without a reservation. Then you’d rush to the bank and stand in line behind a guy depositing coins in a jar. And of course, there was always the risk your ex would intercept it, or the family dog would decide it made the perfect chew toy. It was a ritual equal parts thrilling, frustrating, and absurdly outdated, like renting DVDs from Blockbuster or printing out MapQuest directions.