Three recent moments:

 

100.

My teammates and I stand in a long security line at the airport. We're cranky because A) we've had nothing to eat but trail mix and Clif bars for the past six hours B) we just endured a harrowing rigmarole with United customer service and C) we're in a long security line at the airport.

Suddenly, a woman shrieks. She's about 30 feet behind us.

Woman (shrieking): Oh my god! You're Richard Simmons!

Man (shrieking): I know!

Woman: Oh my god!

Man (shrieking): Where are you going!

Woman: Chicago!

Man (shrieking): So am I! I'm going to lead a workout on the plane!

At which point we turn with glares that say, "The hell you are, little man."

And we are no longer jealous of the people in first class.

 

101.

I like to use my keys as a poor-man's utility knife. They open not only doors and bicycle locks but also boxes, packages and bananas.

Yes, bananas. I don't like the way the tops get mushed when I open them with my hands. Plus, feeble cyclist that I am, I lack the upper-body strength to peel them unassisted. So whenever I have a banana I reach for my keys and use one to perforate the stem.

I don't often eat bananas or need my keys at work, so naturally when I have one this week I leave my keys on my desk. I realize this when I am about a block from home. I curse my banana-eating ways.

Fortunately, Bob has a spare set and is at home. Even more fortunate, when I get to his place he is in the middle of mixing Manhattans. He serves me one in a small jelly jar and we catch up. It is my first one. Not bad, but I'm not sure it's a drink special enough to have an island named after it.

When I get home a second time I realize I have a second problem. Because of burglaries in the neighborhood, the locks on our outside gate have been changed, and Bob's set doesn't have the new key. It's 11 p.m. Nobody's lights are on. My only option is to scale the gate and leap into the back patio. As I'm balancing on wrought-iron spikes, I realize that in my black coat and black watch cap I am a burglar from central casting. All I'm missing is a eye mask and a pillowcase of baubles.

If this were a better story, the police would be hailed and would arrest me for breaking into my own building, but this is not a better story, and my gymnastics go unnoticed.

 

102.

A 4-year-old boy and his mother roll toy trains across the bus seats on the 147. The boy has a cold and coughs. His mother reaches around and pats him on the back. He reaches around and pats her back in return, as if he feels bad that she feels bad that he feels bad. It is sympathy squared.