It seems that when you’ve made your readers, however few, accustomed to daily or at least thrice-weekly blog entries, they start to complain about a less-than-prolific holiday weekend.

“I meant to write yesterday,” I explained to my mother-in-law over lunch this afternoon, “but I couldn’t think of a good topic.”

She looked skeptical and helpfully suggested that I return to the boobs entry from a few days ago and see if I could produce something else on breast-size.

While this is tempting, but especially since I count my father-in-law among my loyal readership, I think I’ll discuss my addiction to zit-picking instead:

A few days ago, I felt a big zit coming on in the vicinity of my chin. It was going to be a doozie, I could tell. Normally when I get a zit, I pick it and squeeze with all my might until I have a welt the size of Alaska where the tiny patch of redness used to be.

People try not to stare at the oozing lesion, and instead of using a little concealer and carrying on with my life, I end up blathering about the zit obsessively for days and days.

“This used to be a little zit,” I say to perfect strangers, while gesturing wildly at my face, “but I picked it!! I just don’t know why I DO that!!” And then I shake my head and look incredulous, and people back slowly away.

So, this time I decided it would be different. I would NOT pick. I would NOT blather. I would use concealer like a normal person. People would not notice the zit.

And so what happened? My resolve lasted all of sixteen hours. When I found myself in the bathroom of an upscale restaurant on Friday night, frantically poking my chin and making fingernail marks in the surrounding skin from the aggressive squeezing while fellow diners hurried out of the restroom to get away from me and my zit puss, I had to admit I have a very big problem.