It shouldn’t surprise any of you: I messed up again. After making a big deal about ending my three-year stint with Mindful Midweek, I find I can’t let go of it gracefully. Or ungracefully, for that matter.

I miss all the supportive, often hilarious, feedback you readers wrote during those moments you should have been working on Wednesday afternoons. I’m such a sap – I even took your sarcastic remarks as friendly banter.

Then there’s my totally undisciplined mind that keeps seeing my world in peculiar ways. I need an outlet or I’ll go crazy.

For example, I’ve always seen myself as a good-looking guy, not great-looking, but better than average. Mind you, I’m not claiming others saw me as handsome, but, as you psychologists know, the thing that counts most is how I saw myself. Then it happened: this weekend, I looked in the mirror at a vulnerable moment and observed this ancient face with a bulbous nose, two humongous ears and little yellowing teeth staring back at me. “Who the hell is this?” I wondered.

I quickly took my driver’s license out of my wallet and stared at the photo. I distinctly remember getting my picture taken at the DMV less than two years ago, and thinking it was just a bad picture day. Now, my photo ID looked swell compared to this old man in the mirror.

I asked Sherry if I really looked that bad. She gave me a hug. I put on my favorite canary yellow shirt and black slacks and went to the mall to get some positive affirmations. All the shoppers were surprisingly young and hanging out in roving packs, each one staring down at a handheld device. One girl looked up, suddenly broke from her pack and ran ahead of me to open the door. I whispered “thank you.” Obviously, the mall wasn’t a fair test of my physical attractiveness, so I inoculated myself with a double-dip chocolate ice cream cone and headed home. My pups were overjoyed to see me. I told them I wasn’t ever going to get better-looking. The shepherds continued to lick my nose in unrelenting admiration. So there.

Over the years, my former above-average-looking self figured out that most of my screw-ups could be patched up by honest communication. So I asked Scott Provence, my editor and friend, who had agreed to step in for me, if I could have my Wednesday slot back. He said, “Heck yeah. I miss your writing too, and my blog will work best on Mondays, when we all could use a superhero.”

I asked Scott how I looked.

“Younger,” he said.