Worst. Op-Ed. Ever.

I basically fell out of my seat on the subway this morning reading the worst op-ed ever:

I try to go to the gym just about every morning. Because I work out with my scarf on, people stare – just as they do on the streets of Cambridge.

The other day, though, I felt more self-conscious than usual. Every television in the gym highlighted some aspect of America’s conflict with the Muslim world: the war in Iraq, allegations that American soldiers had desecrated the Koran, prisoner abuse at Guantánamo Bay, President Bush urging support of the Patriot Act. The stares just intensified my alienation as an Arab Muslim in what is supposed to be my country. I was not sure if the blood rushing to my head was caused by the elliptical trainer or by the news coverage.

Frustrated and angry, I moved to another part of the gym. I got on a treadmill and started running as hard as I could. As sweat dripped down my face, I reached for my towel, accidentally dropping my keys in the process. It was a small thing, I know, but as they slid down the rolling belt and fell to the carpet, my faith in the United States seemed to fall with them. I did not care to pick them up. I wanted to keep running.

Suddenly a man, out of breath, but still smiling and friendly, tapped me on my shoulder and said, “Ma’am, here are your keys.” It was Al Gore, former vice president of the United States. Mr. Gore had gotten off his machine behind me, picked up my keys, handed them to me and then resumed his workout.

It was nothing more than a kind gesture, but at that moment Mr. Gore’s act represented all that I yearned for – acceptance and acknowledgment.

She’s kidding, right? Actually, scratch that — the Times is kidding. They have to be!

Did I ever tell you about the time I left behind my umbrella at Fairway? Along with that umbrella slipped away my faith and enthusiasm for the Upper West Side. As I lugged my many bags thoughtlessly stuffed with olives and sumptuous cheeses down Broadway, the rain came down steadily. Drenched, I cursed the gods, only to have Regis Philbin — no shit! — tap me on the shoulder. Just before ducking into his hired car, he handed me a black umbrella — the ubiquitous five-dollar black umbrella — a lumpy, overwrought symbol of my restored sense of good will towards men.

It was nothing more than a kind gesture, but at that moment Mr. Philbin’s act represented all that I yearned for — acceptance and acknowledgment.