I’m an optimist, one of those people who smiles when the alarm clock buzzes (or, in my case, KISS 108 erupts into my darkened room). I know: I’m a freak of nature. When I was a kid, my persistent morning cheer was a vile tonic for my sister, who apparently plucked the grumpy gene off our gnarled family tree. But I embrace my sunny disposition as a defining element of who I am. I like to laugh and make others laugh. I love quick wit, wordplay and puns (Shakespeare’s dismissive categorization be damned). I’m the uncle who crawls around on the floor with my nephews and nieces during family gatherings. My puppy is irresistible. So are potato chips. I will find the up side of a situation rather than its worst-case scenario. In fact, a friend once marveled “You’re so eternally happy you would have been singing ‘Tomorrow’ rather than crying for help if you were the girl trapped in the pit in ‘Silence of the Lambs’.” (It’s an awful scene in a thrilling film.) He’s probably right. Some people see an empty glass; I say, “No, there’s a couple of sips left.” Happiness is relative. It’s a degree of comfort in one’s own skin, an ability to appreciate moments big (a ticket to “Book of Mormon” on Broadway with the original cast) and small (an open bag of sea salt and pepper Kettle chips), a capacity towards kindness. (Kind people tend to be happy.) I’m a happy guy. (249)