Lately the public transportation system I use nearly every day has assailed my happiness. Losing even three minutes to circumstances outside my control during the morning commute can produce a ridiculously and frighteningly peevish version of myself. The announcement of a delay is made over the loud speaker, and I take personal offense at the news. I stand contrapposto--with a hand on one hip, for emphasis--and put on the most sullen face I can muster. If more than a minute slips by, I close my eyes and tilt my head toward the heavens. Why, Lord? Why me? As though God, while brushing his teeth that morning, forgot to ensure that the universe swirl ceaselessly around me.

In commuterland, the seconds feel like minutes and the minutes feel like hours. When the doors finally open, I burst through them like I've been trapped in a small crevice for days. I might, in desperate impatience, even brush against a fellow traveler who just isn't rushing for his life fast enough.

To compensate for lost minutes, I sprint, I leap, I scale, I dodge. I become something of an unhappy action figure in red mary janes. And I demonstrate remarkable agility, encumbered as I am by layers of winter clothes and at least two bags bouncing gracelessly behind me.

Thankfully, there is such a thing as traveling mercies. The rather mundane (though lately maddening) ritual of standing around a bunch of strangers for nearly two hours every day can be quite magical, even illuminating, at times. On occasion, it is hilarious. Most often, it is humbling.

During a particularly busy day in December, for example, I found myself smooshed against an enormous man who was draped in black fur. Real, ankle-length fur. How could I not smile at this absurdity, riding along as intimately as I was with what remains of King Kong?