The other day I had to go to one of these governmental offices for some tax form.

It wasn’t the first year actually it was about the fifteenth but this year many things in the structure of the office had changed including I notice with a pinch of pride and joy me.

There’s still the American guy on the phone in high volume asking his wife for the children’s ID numbers and their dates of birth because “no one told me about this part.” And there’s still the lady with the glasses hanging by a long silver-beaded chain who knows everything. But the new addition is a little computer and screen sitting on the reception desktop that a person needs to touch in order to receive their number rather than the old bakery-style roll tickets.

The lady with the glasses hanging explains to me how to use the new machine. I take a chair close to the new thing and organize my papers one on top of the other.

This time I’m finally going to be the ultra-efficient one. I notice others coming in looking perplexed about not finding the old roll tickets. “Press the screen.” I motion the process.

I start to get all haughty all puffed up about having finally “made it.” It took fifteen years but this time around I’m not that “greener” American guy on the phone. This time I’ve taken all the information on birthdates and ID numbers and I’m even helping others with the new ticket system. I came early before the crowds. All prepared. Amazing. This time I’m it.

My number is only ten away and the lines are moving.

I look up and there’s Rebbetzin Zimmerman. She’s finished and on her way to leave the offices but before she goes she stops to say a warm hello. Somehow we get onto the subject of chometz and mascara. “What could be in mascara?” I say kind of off-handedly probably because of all the pride in my system about being so smart and efficient this time. “What could be in mascara?” the rebbetzin asks passsionately. “There could be oats.” As she talks I’m thinking but after all the dyes certainly a dog wouldn’t eat it.” She must have sensed the chometz in my soul and she gave back the answer with intense conviction right there in the tax office. She stood up tall wagging her finger almost shouting “Mascara’s made with oats to thicken the eyelashes.”

Point made. She smiles a kind of victory smile and continues on to share a story about salt. How a long time ago a shipload of salt was sent out to Eretz Yisrael from a port in Asia specifically for Pesach.

Before the ship left port a chemical spilled all over the bags of salt. By mistake.

“The chemical was full of chometz” the rebbetzin says empassioned. “The whole of Eretz Yisrael couldn’t eat the salt that year. You have to be careful about everything everywhere ” she warns. “You see there can even be chometz in the salt!”

After this the rebbetzin exits through the two glass doors.

I glance down at my ticket which reads number 336 as I listen for the next number to be announced. I hear them call number “337.”

I miss my turn.

There goes all the puff and pride. What do I do now? I ask myself.

I go over to the desk and explain. The woman behind the desk says she’ll hold up the line if I tell to the others who are waiting why.

I turn to the large looming not happy crowd. I apologize and explain how I missed my turn.

Talk about humbling experiences.

I start to think. The rebbetzin had actually said it all. Even in the silliest thing like being prepared for the tax form a person could become puffed up. Here I am accomplishing a dash of salt’s worth of accomplishment. Salt doesn’t even have a constitution to become chometz. Even so as the rebbetzin says “a person has to be careful about everything everywhere because there could even be chometz.in the salt.”