I Passed the North Carolina Adjuster’s Exam (and Survived the Fuzzy Slippers of Doom)

 


Today was the big day.

I showed up a solid half hour early at Richmond County Community College, doing my best to feel prepared and not anxious—even though I was totally a little anxious.

As I walked in, I met my first obstacle: a woman at the front desk who was clearly not having a great morning. She was wearing fuzzy house slippers (bold choice for state exams), giving the staff attitude, and didn’t seem to know which test she was supposed to take or where she was supposed to go. Every time she slid or shuffled out of her slippers, I caught a glimpse of a very... earthy foot. She radiated bad energy. I started wondering if I was even in the right place. Early or not, that vibe was contagious.

Eventually, the mystery of Fuzzy Slippers was resolved, and it was my turn to check in. I came loaded for bureaucratic bear: eight points of ID, my test admission slip, my pre-licensing course certificate—even though I didn’t need it. No way was I letting red tape trip me up. If I was going to fail this thing, it would be on my own terms.

They gave me walking directions to the testing room—which I followed like a soldier on a mission—down a gray and blue carpeted hallway to a door marked simply: Testing.

Once inside, I signed a few things and locked up anything not allowed in the exam room. The proctor handed me a key for the locker, booted up my specific test, pointed to the calculator, and gave me a whiteboard with dry erase markers.

“Good luck,” he said.

Two hours and fifteen minutes. 135 questions. But only 100 actually count—the rest are for some mysterious data collection. So off we go.

I watched the tutorial. I read the instructions. I took a deep breath.
Question One: Holy crap. I have no idea. I don’t think we even covered this.

But one nice thing: the test lets you mark any question for review. I leaned into that. I slugged through the questions—sometimes completely stumped, sometimes confident, and more than a few times using educated guesses and the ol’ process of elimination. The wording of the questions? Absolutely designed to mess with your head. These were gotcha-style riddles masquerading as insurance questions.

Eventually, I looked up and realized I had 10 questions left and a full hour on the clock. That was a good sign. I circled back to the 12 questions I wasn’t sure about, took my time, re-read everything, and ended up changing three answers.

Then came The Button.
The Submit button.
I clicked it.
It asked, “Are you sure?”
I clicked yes.
It asked again, “Are you sure you want to submit?”
And suddenly, it felt like I was being interrogated by Joe Pesci. “Are you sure? I mean really really sure? How could you be so sure?!”

Was this part of the test? A test within a test?

In my best Marisa Tomei voice, I clicked again. “I'm positive"


The proctor came in, collected my dry erase board and calculator, and walked me back to the front.

“So… how did I do?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he said flatly.

Was this also part of the test? I was beginning to feel like the only thing I knew anymore was that I knew nothing.

“Is it on your screen?” I asked. “Or is it still calculating?”

“I never tell anyone if they pass or fail,” he said, and pointed to a printer across the room. A piece of paper lay there, face down.

I walked over, stared at it for a moment, knowing part of my future was inked on the other side. I picked it up, flipped it over—and there it was.

PASS.
Just one word, but that was all I needed.

No score. No fanfare. Just a goofy photo of me and the word I’d been hoping to see.

I passed. OH THANK GOD!. I PASSED.

And honestly? Who cares about the score? Six months from now, no one’s going to ask what I got. All that matters is I did it.

I walked out of the building floating like a feather, waving at strangers and skipping into the rainstorm like Gene Kelly. Somewhere between the fuzzy slippers, the trick questions, and the third “Are you sure?” prompt, I managed to become a licensed adjuster.

Maybe you can teach an old dog new tricks.
Maybe I’m not too old to learn something new.
And maybe six months from now, if someone asks me to explain inland marine coverage, My eye will  twitch a little and I'll change the subject.

But for today?
I passed. And that feels good.

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