At precisely the same time I became a game-show host on one of the largest cable networks in the country—my 45-year-old melonhead suddenly thrust into 94 million homes—I started to look and feel my middle age. Was it psychological head-casery? Probably. That's a helluva lot of homes.

Still, the timing sucked.

As host of Friday Night Game Night—a ridiculously fun gig at the national shopping channel, HSN—I was discovering new blemishes, new eye bags, new bloat every morning. Do you know what "11 lines" are? Yeah, well, I do. And I swear those zig-zagging wrinkles weren't between my youthful peepers the day before I started working in television. Did Alex Trebek and Gene Rayburn and Bob Barker go through this? Someone get me Sajak on the phone!

My life was equal parts ego boost and self-esteem crotch kick. One night we had Shaquille O'Neal do the show; my twisted producers, Jeni Drozd and Paul Moore, both TV vets, had me ask him if he'd rather drink a gallon of mayonnaise or eat a pound of butter. (The contestant had to predict Shaq's answer; she went with mayo and so did he.) It was a special night, affirmation I had made the right decision leaving behind 20 years of journalism at the Tampa Bay Times and The Washington Post.

In the morning, though, I swear Wilford Brimley was looking back at me in the bathroom mirror.

When did this happen? How long had I resembled the cast of Cocoon? Why couldn't I be ten years younger when I landed this sweet new job? Jesus, I think I need reading glasses, too!

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My 74-year-old mother, so happy that she could watch her son from 900 miles away, loved my first few shows. Then even she started feeding my paranoia: "You looked thicker around the middle. Are you drinking soda again? Because Pepsi always bloated you." Whaaaat???

I was happy on the air; the show allowed me to be natural, funny, flirty. But I was panicking everywhere else, irrational and totally paranoid. I began seeing more and more unflattering pictures and videos of myself online, stuff put there by other people. We live in an anxious social-media age when our lives, our faces, our privacy are more public than ever before, when we all worry so much about how we compare to everyone else. It devours, insecurity.

And at a time when my looks actually counted, I felt like I had lost control of my sagging face, a hyperreal modern malaise. Imagine if someone else had control of what was posted of you on Instagram. It felt sort of like that. Right now I'm staring at an in-studio snapshot on Facebook in which I look like a less handsome version of Sloth from The Goonies. I sure as hell didn't post it. With the influx of celebrities, handlers, posses, and social-media teams running through this network, it could have been anyone.

I began hitting the network hair-and-makeup salon early and often. I learned my color palette: M.A.C. Neutral Warm 35. I started doing something called Power Glow Peels. No idea what they are. Just rubbed 'em on and prayed for youth.

I had to make a change. I had to do something.

So I gave up.

Not like unshowered, drinking-Schlitz-at-11-A.M. gave up. Don't go thinking I went full monk, either. I'm still on social media way too much. And I totally, unabashedly love makeup—straight truth.

No, I gave up wondering if ex-girlfriends and high school enemies were high-fiving when a viewer from South Dakota posted a screen shot of me with seventeen chins rippling off my face. I gave up losing sleep when a stranger at the grocery store recognized me from TV and said, "You look different in person," when what she really meant was "Fat fat fatty-fat fat. Oh, and old."

Sure, I still wince when I look doughy on my show. (I blame Budweiser and my mook pals.) But now I move on faster. I'll go insane if I don't.

I leaned into my vanity. I owned 45. I started following the Instagram accounts of Miley Cyrus and Amy Schumer, smart world-turning talents who have no problem launching goofy pictures into cyberspace. That's pure power right there. They're my heroes. They'll post anything.

Then the real breakthrough came. Through a partnership between HSN and the Ford Motor Company, I was able to give away a brand-new Ford Edge on my show. To promote the episode, I shot a promotional video on the streets of St. Petersburg, Florida, the hometown of HSN's campus. The video was cute; I filled up an Edge with colorful supplies for one of my daughter's birthday parties. I couldn't wait to see the finished product.

When the video finally aired—all across America, all across the Internet—it featured a freeze-frame of me in which I looked like I had eaten a Ford Edge. I'm also wearing an expression akin to the moment when you realize Mexican for lunch was a bad idea.

I stared, drop-jawed, for several minutes. Aw, crap. Really?

Then I sighed. Then I laughed. Then I posted my ginormous head on Instagram.

Best decision I've ever made.

A few days later, I showed that same car-promo pic to a famous chef, trying to make her laugh, loosen her up before a live, unscripted shoot.

"You look like Anthony Bourdain," she said, looking at my Instagram. "And he's hot."

He is hot. And, like, the coolest guy on the planet. He's also 14 years older than I am.

She was probably being nice. But lo and behold, it was Bourdain, not Wilford Brimley, looking back at me in the bathroom mirror the next morning. All because I posted an uggo picture, all because I gave up trying to look perfect and pretty and totally put-together to the world.

I'm not perfect. I'm a mess. We all are. And yet as soon as we accept how we really look, we suddenly get a whole lot more handsome.

Now...who wants to win a brand-new car?

You can watch Sean Daly on HSN every Friday between 8 and 11 P.M. EST. You can also watch him grow swiftly older on Instagram @seandalytv.

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