“Oh no,” my husband interrupted. “Don’t do that. You should never pop a zit.”

Excuse me?

This from the man who has, for the last seventeen years I have known him, assembled a full battle attack on every frontal blemish as well as infrequently begging for some backne assistance? Seriously? Don’t pop a zit?

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m just saying he shouldn’t start. He’ll get addicted.”

“Like you?”

“Like me.”

“And what distress has this pimple popping habit caused you?”

“I’m just saying”

I tried to reason with my husband, tried to impress upon him the social suicide–not to mention the pain–of walking around with a huge festering and poppable boil on your face. He kept repeating his hypocritical stance.

Finally, I took my son by the hand into the bathroom where I showed him the proper technique for removing a pimple. There, I did it. Turned him on to the particular joy and accomplishment of banishing a common whitehead.

I’m really looking forward to the first blackhead extraction.