The hardest thing I do every morning is shake myself out of bed. In terms of challenge, the rest of the day is downhill from there. It’s even harder in winter, when we rise before the sun (which makes me think she has the same problem I do).

As the days begin to shorten and daylight arrives later and later, I’ve been pondering how to come to terms with my morningitis. Right now, if I rose in the dark instead of waiting for the light, it would mean an extra hour or so each day in which to get things done,. By mid-December it will mean an extra two hours. And that’s just in the morning.

We lose about two hours of sunlight in the evening, and I had the same problem with that too. I dreaded the early nightfall and felt it made for long, dreary nights. But a couple years ago, I asked myself what I might do to reverse this “glass is half empty” philosophy to a “glass is half full.” What benefit could I find in nighttime at five o’clock when summer lingers until ten?

I worked it around in my mind for a while and then realized that the early darkness provided a great cover for the frequent grey that is characteristic of where I live in late fall and winter. It is a great leveler; and, once in place, you can’t notice the gloom any more. Rather, you can enjoy long evenings by the fire reading a book. Or watching a DVD. Or writing.

I’m having a harder time with making the morning glass half full, but I’m working on it. Any helpful suggestions are appreciated.

I used to think closers referred only to those late inning baseball pitchers who are sent in when it looks like the game might slip away. But recently, I have had two experiences where closers were brought in when I wanted to cancel my telephone service and my satellite service for other providers. I guess from the phone and satellite companies’ point of view, they saw the money I send them each month slipping away.

In both instances, the scenario was the same. I called the appropriate telephone numbers and meandered through the automated menus that greeted me. You know the drill: “If you are a present customer, please press one. If you have a question about your bill, please press two. If you’re calling to report a problem, please press, three . . . “ Of course, there is never ever an option that states, “If you’re calling to cancel your account, please press six.”

I finally pushed zero a couple times and waited to be transferred to the next available customer service representative. When she came on the line, we went through the standard identification rigmarole – account number, name, secret code, mother’s maiden name, high school I attended, favorite movie, and the name of my first pet – before I could tell her the reason for my call.

“Oh,” she said. “I’ll have to transfer you to another department”; and she put me on hold before I could ask why. I mean, if she is a customer service representative, wouldn’t she have the authority to give me service? Even if it is by canceling my account? In time, the second customer service representative came on the line and I repeated the reason for my call.

“May I ask why you are canceling?” she said.

Now I’ve learned giving explanations only provides ammunition for the closer to come back with a special pricing offer that negates your reasoning. So I simply said, “Because I want to.”


“But why do you want to? Is there something about our service or our product that you’re unhappy with. If there is, we’d like the opportunity to fix it. So I’d like to offer you . . . “ I saw where this was going and cut her off in mid-offer.

“I don’t want a hard-sell job. I just want to cancel my service. Why is this so involved?”

She was as offended with my attitude as I was with hers, and she let me know it. “I’m only doing my job,” she said. “I have to ask these questions. Now, if I may continue.”

So it went. For each generous offer she made, I repeated that I didn’t want it. I only wanted my service terminated. It was a trying experience for both of us – probably similar to a ninth inning scare — but at long last my account was cancelled. This was one closer who didn’t save the day.