Foldable flats on, I reach Canal Street Station. As I push my way through the ticket barrier, the aboveground spring breeze turns into stale, deep-fried air. Okay, maybe Manhattan’s air isn’t exactly wholesome. But the underground air is ten times worse. Warm and clingy.

Someone stomps on my foot—not fun when my only protection is foldable flats.

“Hey,” I call after the brute.

But the suit ignores me and hurries toward his track. You sorry excuse for a commuter. I forgot how rude, pushy, and inconsiderate of other people’s existence subway-takers can be. So much better to walk to work. Easy to say in summer. Wait until it rains, snows, and blizzards, then see how fun it is to walk on a bridge exposed to the elements.

I squish myself onto the first uptown train and, oh, the stench. Exposed to the elements sounds more promising than squeezed to within an inch of my life by smelly strangers. I’m walled in by three people. If there’s one place where being short is a clear disadvantage, it’s inside a subway car. Behind me stands an overweight gentleman whose bulging belly is warmly pressed against my back. On my left, a tall girl—I hate genetics right now—has a bony elbow dangerously close to my jaw. And I can count the pills on the tie of the guy standing directly in front of me, who, besides having a dreadful fashion sense, is also drinking coffee from a paper cup.

I watch in horror as Mr. Old Tie removes the plastic lid. Is he crazy? The last thing I need is a hot-coffee shower. I try to edge back. But bulgy-guy’s belly stops me. I search left and right for an escape route. Nothing. My head is level with my fellow riders’ shoulders at best; I can’t see anything. I can’t breathe. Please, New York fairies, let this ride be a short one.

I spend the next thirty minutes watching that paper cup like a hawk. When I finally emerge on Columbus Circle, unharmed, if not a bit traumatized, I take a few deep breaths of air, even relishing the smog. If I come back to work at Northwestern, I’ll walk. I’ll get Chevron a dog-sitter nearby. What about winter? She’ll get a doggy rainbreaker, I don’t care. I’m never taking that line at seven in the morning ever again. If my relationship with Gerard had one merit, it was his Park Avenue address.

I swap flats for stiletto heels and cross the threshold of Northwestern’s evil tower of power. The glass and steel are overwhelmingly cold around me. Oh, so now you even miss brick walls and decrepit wooden floors? What if I do? Just saying, you used to love the power of glass and stainless steel. Right, used to. Before they kicked me to the curb. So what are you doing here? It’s business. A publishing house wants to make me an offer and I want to hear it. Mini-mental-me snickers at that.