7:20 am. Alarm goes off. Surface from a very pleasant dream to hear the words “thank you, Jesus, for this cloudy Monday morning” (radio tuner is set to an FM Christian-witness station, the better to force miserable carcass out from under duvet every morning.) Half-asleep, sculpt covers into a self-supporting arch to make sliding back under them as easy as possible, lurch towards clock radio, swipe at it until silence reigns, and bumble back to bed.

7:21 am. Fall asleep again.

7:28 am. Dimly sense cat curling up behind knees.

7:29 am. “Good morning, believers in the New York metro area. At the sound of the tone, the time -” Thump!

7:30 am. Turn on TV. Huddle on couch in fugly bathrobe, slurping orange juice in vain attempt to drive up blood sugar; wait for the “Weather On The Ones” report to come on before deciding what to wear.

7:31 am. “Oh, crap.”

7:32 am. Turn on shower to let it warm up. Listen to news bulletin with one half of brain; rack other half trying to remember approximate location of umbrella. In today’s news, sentencing of Justin Volpe blah blah blah transit strike blah blah blah Hillary Rodham Clinton blah blah blah Y2Kakes. Get into shower.

7:33 am. “Hey, new soap!”

7:34 am. “Oh, hello, cat. Yes, that’s a nice cat. Did the cat want to make sure The Mom won’t drown? Aw. Good cat.”

7:38 am. “‘There’s a small hotel, with a wishing well, I wish that we . . .’’Hey, did he say ‘transit strike’? Because I thought I heard him say that. Aw, nice cat. Would the cat like to turn up the volume on the television so that The Mom can hear it? Cat?”

7:39 am. “Cat?”

7:45 – 8:05 am. Brush teeth, moisturize, dry hair, and apply deodorant with TV blaring. Derive amusement from pointing hair dryer at cat. Attempt to ascertain whether or not transit strike will actually happen.

8:07 am. Succeed in stuffing flabby self into control-top tights and reasonably waterproof outfit. Gather up loose change, cigarettes, Filofax, mittens, reading materials for endless subway ride, and other necessary jetsam. Wonder how financial correspondent Jill Bennett scored job as anchor when she obviously requires a GPS hook-up to find the damn cue cards.

8:11 am. Leave apartment.

8:12 am. Chase cat down hall. Retrieve cat. Scold cat. Deposit cat gently on bed. Leave apartment.

8:13 am. Chase cat down hall again. Retrieve cat again. Scold cat again. Deposit cat on bed again; dispense with “gently” part. Leave apartment.

8:14 am. Wait for elevator.

8:15 am. Wait for elevator some more. Push “down” button rapidly twelve times while depilating coat of layer of angrily-shedded cat hair. Exchange pained smile with similarly cat hair-festooned neighbor.

8:17 am. Finally emerge from elevator into lobby and onto street. Commence cross-town journey to subway station.

8:20 am. “Ow. Wind. Ow.”

8:26 am. Arrive at station. Fail to pry MetroCard out of wallet with frozen fingers. Mutter, “Not!” at MetroCard. Shake wallet upside down like snowglobe. Watch MetroCard flutter out and under grating to “paid” side of turnstile. Consider going home, crying, and killing self, in that order.

8:27 am. “No, two tokens – see? Three dollars? For two? Tokens? Two of them?”

8:28 am. “Two tokens? Because they cost a dollar-fifty each, so I gave you – what’s that? No, see, I gave you three dollars. Three dollars. For two. Two tokens.”

8:29 am. Enter platform. Retrieve renegade MetroCard from grotty platform tile. Wait for train.

8:31 am. Wait for train.

8:33 am. Wait for train some more. Begin impatient shifting from foot to foot, snotty sighing, and general fulmination, none of which will do thing one to speed up train service. Observe aloud, “You’d think, at rush hour,” then nod emphatically when fellow commuter finishes sentence, “they’d, I don’t know, run the occasional train through the middle of town or something.”

8:34 am. Join fellow commuters in group utterance of exasperated, “Finally.” Take place in column of people to board train.

8:35 am. Lament getting behind woman in column. Think to self that men know how to push onto trains better than women do. Vow never to line up behind woman in column again. Give woman passive-aggressive thwap with messenger bag while pushing past her towards seat.

8:36 am. “Excuse me. Excuse me. Ex-cuse me. Ex-cuse me. Excuse me. Sorry. Excuse me. Pardon me. Excuse me. Um, excuse me? Thanks. Okay, excuse me.”

8:37 am. Wedge self in between two rather portly people and their very portly outerwear. Roll eyes. Read magazine.

8:38 am. Discover that magazine, folded into sixteenths in order to save space, is unreadable in this format. Read ads on wall. Read graffiti. Read geometry homework of kid two seats down. Glare at kid who keeps bonking you in head with dangerously overstuffed backpack.

8:39 am. Bonk. “Ow.” “Sorry.” Bonk. “Ow.” “Sorry.” Bonk. “Ow!” “Sorry!” Bonk. “OW!” “SORRY!” Bonk bonk BONK! “Ow ow OW!” “Sorry, sorry, SORRY ABOUT THAT!”

8:40 am. Wonder why, when conductor says train is held in station by dispatch, conductor never tells passengers what for. Wonder if passenger at next station died. Wonder if train at next station ran over someone. Know in heart of hearts that one of the many idiots who don’t believe “stand clear of the closing doors” applies to them has caused the doors to open and shut with increasing vigor several dozen times, thus delaying train and all trains behind it. Hate people. Seethe.

8:45 am. Bonk. “Okay, OW.” “Okay, I said SORRY.”

8:47 am. Clap hands over ears as shockingly loud burst of static from PA system threatens to rupture eardrum. Glean from so-called announcement that “CHCHH BRRHH GUJJRRRAT!”

8:48 am. Find out from static-fluent passenger that “CHCHH BRRHH GUJJRRRAT” translates roughly to “this train will now make express stops to 157th Street.” Discover also that “BRRGG MMRNNNGEEF” means “please detrain at 96th Street and change for local service.” Vow to write this down at some point.

8:49 am. With odds of arriving at work on time nearing vanishing point, detrain at 96th Street.

8:50 am. Local train arrives. Try to walk onto train; ride wave of people into train without feet touching ground. Stand so close to complete strangers that introductions seem in order, not to mention one of the more reliable barrier methods of birth control. And a box of Altoids.

8:51 am. According to conductor, “HHRRRAAGH. THGGFRRAT!” Feel toes flattened beyond recognition by passengers who, after yelping, “116th? The FUCK, man?” stampede out onto platform. Vow to research purchase of clown shoe.

8:52 am. Hear woman at other end of car bellow, “Get OUT of the DOOR, yo!” Add small “woo hoo!” Hear woman add, “Scrub.” Giggle.

8:54 am. Just before onset of claustrophobic anxiety attack, tumble out of train at 116th Street. Feel rude yank on strap of messenger bag. Whirl around, mittens in “fight” position, eyebrows in “don’t make me come over there” position. Stop just short of punching best friend in stomach. Apologize to best friend; engage in animated grousing with best friend.

8:57 am. “Oh, hello, sesame bagel. And hello to you, coffee.”

9:02 am. Arrive at work only two minutes late. De-stress in bitch session with rest of department about “lame-ass red line.” Remind self and others that a bus bound for the same destination would still not have made it past 72nd Street by now. Speculate on resolution of transit strike.

9:04 am. Collect for office transit-strike pool.

10:07 am. Plan office transit-strike triathlon for co-workers who live in Brooklyn. Imagine looks of confusion on faces of Chelsea Piers patrons when colleagues surface from East River clad in frog suits, strip off their hoods for skeet-shooting event, and begin the run uptown on Ninth Avenue while kicking off their swim fins. Amuse Manhattan-residing self with scenario of department head wearing novelty dorsal fin on head.

10:08 am. Feel face fall when own commuting plight – namely, a five-mile death march each way, commencing at six-thirty in the morning and lasting more than three hours round trip, all to work three-and-a-half-hour shift – sinks in.

10:09 am. Realize that brisk five-mile walk will undoubtedly prove more enjoyable than wind-tunnel-cum-sardine-packaging-experiment that currently constitutes morning commute, and may in fact take less time. Start looking forward to “transit crisis.” Add gorp to shopping list. Resolve to buy canteen also; make list of tapes to bring for Walkman.

12:30 pm. Repeat entire process in reverse.

Get directions.

The idiots in charge.

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