I was thrilled to pass the test. But there were hundreds of dos and don’ts I’d need to pick up on my own

IT

takes less time to become a certified real estate agent in the state of New Jersey than it does to get over chicken pox.

The two-week course was extremely technical, with a heavy emphasis on various state laws. Who owns the airspace above the house? What are the ins and outs of “eminent domain,” the laws that dictate when the government can buy private property without consent?

You put in a full day for two weeks, you sit through some classes that are brain-numbingly boring, you have the instructor to verify that you actually showed up — those are the easy parts. Then you need to take a state test. It’s long, difficult, and tricky; there’s an agent in town who openly shares he took the test 22 times.

I spent a week in the library, studying with anyone who was willing to hit the books with me — besides one girl who just kept saying, “We’re never going to pass, we’re never going to pass…” I didn’t want to be around all that negativity. She took the test once, failed, and gave up. What a shame.

School had never been my thing, and I particularly hated taking tests, so I asked everyone to put in a good word Above for me. When the non-Jewish receptionist called from the pediatrician’s office to remind me about our well-baby appointment, I asked her to pray for me. She assured me she would. I went to the grocery store and found myself telling the bagging lady about this huge exam I needed to pass. She happily joined my prayer camp. No such thing as too many tefillos — right?

And it worked. I passed on my first attempt.