My face is missing me.
Until I was instructed not to touch my nose, my eyes or my mouth with my hands, I never thought I was the kind of guy who played around with his face like a first base coach giving instructions to his baserunners.
Now I can’t help myself. I need someone to tie my hands behind my back. My nose itches like it never has before. My eyes need a little love from my index finger. I didn’t recognize how much I wet my thumb to turn the pages of my newspaper. I’m a total mess.
This plays to a general principle that has hounded me all my life. The more I focus on not doing something for my own good, the more difficult it is for me not to do it. If I convince myself not to eat pastries all week long, I’m stuffing a jelly doughnut in my mouth by Tuesday. If my self-talk says, “Don, don’t give your overbearing advice to your adult children,” I’m calling my son to instruct him on money management.
Maybe reverse psychology will work?
I will never eat those healthy green vegetables again.