I immediately collapsed into envy, which is nasty stuff. It not only makes you unhappy with yourself, it also makes you angry at the object of your envy, who is probably a perfectly decent person, as I assume Cary Grant is.

Nevertheless, the news about his octogenarianism instantly threw me into a fit of sour envy. What right did Cary Grant have to look better at 80 than I had at 30?

I have had trouble all my life with Cary Grant. At 18 I wanted to know why Cary Grant was entitled to a dimpled smile while I had to put up with ears like antenna dishes and a cowlick. At 24 I wanted to know why women I took dancing usually ended the evening by saying I mightn't look so funny if I went to Cary Grant's tailor.

And now here was this cup of gall about Cary Grant at 80. All right, Cary Grant, I said to myself, I've had enough of your superiority. And I began a long-term program that would eventually make me look as good at 60 as Cary Grant had looked at 80.

Thus the following week found me joining the neighbors who trot around and around and around the block at dawn, an hour I have always considered fit only for firing squads and snoring.

On the third morning during the 10th circuit of the block, my Cary Grant envy ceased abruptly. ''Be honest,'' I urged myself. ''You can roll out at dawn for the rest of your life and still not look as good at 60 as Cary Grant does at 80 - am I right?''

I had to agree that I was, but next morning I rolled out again anyhow. Why? I had moved into another form of envy. This was inspired by the extraordinary number of trotters who wore headsets linked to cassette players.

What were these people listening to? I could imagine. Some, I figured, were gulping down entire courses in music appreciation: Vivaldi's greatest hits, Wagner's Nibelungenlied digested for joggers. Others, no doubt, were taking taped courses in one-minute, two-minute and even three- minute management, which would equip them to take control of I.B.M., Du Pont, General Motors.

Here were Americans with a purpose, Americans who knew how to make maximum use of time. They were simultaneously fitting themselves to assume corporate leadership and to reach 60 looking as good as Cary Grant at 80.

I envied these people for their efficient use of time efficiently. I had always wanted to run I.B.M. - I don't know why, except that I'd always liked the idea of being introduced as ''the man who runs I.B.M.,'' so I could then say, ''And would you believe I can't tell a transistor from a transvestite?''

Why were tycoons entitled to the corporate spoils while I had to stand at the pay window and be told that governments had taken it all?

This particular envy prompted me to turn out at dawn for another week. Now I, too, had a headset clamped to my ears. In one ear I listened to ''Mendelssohn for Beginners,'' in the other a condensation of the best-selling ''Creative Accounting and Plea Bargaining Your Way to the Top.''

That was not all. In my hand I carried a portable telephone, ready to do business in an instant. My family said, ''What business? Who's up at dawn except joggers and policemen finishing the graveyard shift?'' I pointed out that at dawn the London gold market had already been open for hours.

''But you're a complete idiot about markets of all kinds,'' said a family member who prides herself on candor. Her observation was responsible for my next onset of envy, since it started me reading the Wall Street news to learn about markets.

My idea, you see, was to surprise her by coming back one dawn to announce that I'd phoned London and bought a quart or two of gold while jogging past Swenson's newsstand.

Well, of course, in the Wall Street news I learned about people who raided the Phillips Petroleum Company. One man made a nifty $50 million profit at it; another cleaned up with $90 million.

Talk about envy! ''Why are these people entitled to make millions raiding Phillips Petroleum when I don't even know what Phillips Petroleum is?'' I cried.