I live a little happy life with my little cat in my little hobbit hole doing my little projects and going on little adventures. My first cognitive behavioral therapist told me happiness is a choice. I didn’t understand how he could say so because I had an illness that choked the happiness out of me, but I eventually found a doctor who could give me a leg up with the help of medication. I can make that choice now, and I try to pick happiness whenever I get chance.

My office is closed for voting today. Since I cast my ballot yesterday, I have the day free, with the exception of my doctor’s appointment at 11:30. I think I’ll go to a cool cafe in the neighborhood when it opens at 7:30 (the only way to be guaranteed a seat) and try to draw, which I’ve been failing to do lately. I pick out a pair of adventure socks and hit the road.

Pictured: Adventure Socks

I’ve had a hard time focusing lately, so I’m ready to go with exactly enough time to make it there, maybe with a little waiting-outside time. The train ride is direct and lasts just enough to get a good half of a drawing in. As I close in on the station, I watch the elevated, southbound Red train arrive, meaning I’ll get there in time to catch the next one.

Yet, as I approach, the train stays where it is. I make it to the platform and witness a thickening cloud of commuters waiting for the doors to open on the same train. My dreams of doodling for twenty-five minutes dissipated. What happens next fills me with dread. Red-line riders are directed to go downtown to the Green line, ride that to Chinatown, and transfer to Red line for the next few stops to my destination. The Green train that arrives is only six cars, as opposed to the usual eight, meaning we’re more densely packed than a sardine tin full of black holes. The trip, as you can imagine, is a nightmare.

As an atheist, I believe this life is the only one I’m going to get. Sometimes this life sucks. Sometimes, you have to commute for half an hour with your nose shoved into the armpit of some dude who didn’t buy you dinner first. Sometimes, though, there’s another way. Over the next two stops, I fight the crush and the jostling to pull up a map of DC.

I find out there is another way.

When we reach U Street, I escape. This is a challenge. Despite being right next to the door, I have to push through five people to get to the empty platform. I ride up the escalator to Thirteenth Street to get my bearings, and I emerge into the crisp dawn of a city I love.

I’m free.

The U Street Corridor is the cultural hub of Washington DC, and I get to enjoy it, early in the morning, sharing it with no one but the joggers who clip me on their way to wherever it is they’re headed to in such a hurry.

I see murals.

Pictured: History

Pictured: Ruth Bader Ginsberg

I see local pubs, restaurants, and shops. I see Big Planet Comics, a satellite of the one I used to bike to in Virginia, perched next to a cards and a record store. I see embassies. I see mansions. I see brownstones. I see people walking their dogs. I see a dog park. I see pocket parks. I see art. I see sculpture. I see a sequined top caught in barbwire.

Pictured: So many questions

I may not believe in God, but I believe in luck. If I have to go to work, I’ll be stuck in the underground with all those unhappy people. If my train doesn’t break down, this will be just another trip into town. If the Green line doesn’t come close enough to DuPont Circle, I can’t take this brief stroll. If I don’t think to consult my phone in time, I’m stuck. But the universe aligns itself just right.

Because of everything, I get to the café twenty minutes after it opens. There is exactly one seat available. The Lady strikes again.