When I have a pimple, I pick. I admit it. I know I shouldn't. My face holds more than one lasting reminder that picking at pimples is not a good idea. And yet, I can't seem to stop myself.I was the same as a child with a scab. My mom would explain to me over and over how I was making things worse. And of course, she was right. But that didn't stop me. Unfortunately, this need to pick is not limited to pimples or other skin abrasions. I do this with everything. I simply can NOT leave things alone.Make a point with my husband? Sure. Six hours ago. Yep, I am still pick-pecking away. Interesting political discussion? It was. Until I got the old soap box out. Now it is a monologue worthy of Jon Stewart (but not nearly so funny.)But like all picking (I'll just leave that metaphor right where it is), it's best in private. Uncomfortable conversation with a friend... I'll be picking at that scab for months. Heck, try years. I can still remember an embarrassing incident from my 14th summer. Time to let that scab heal, don't you think?I did not, however, marry a picker. (Well, at least in this circumstance... enough said). He is a leave it alone guy. Which makes him perfect and perfectly annoying to me.Sometimes it is wonderful that he can be so Zen-like (or forgetful -- this is debatable). In the classic opposites attract way, he can remind me that it doesn't always have to be so hard. Sometimes, you can walk away.Until it's not... Sometimes, I don't want to let it go. And I don't want him to let it go. I want him to stay in the game with me and fix it. Or tear it apart until it hurts, possibly bleeds and requires a tiny band-aid across the cheek. (Not that this has ever happened.... More than once.)So tell me, so you pick or can you leave it alone? Is it my over active memory compared to my husband's blissful forgetfulness or is he onto something? And if so, is there a way you can share it with me without me admitting that he is right and I am wrong? Because I am pretty sure he will suddenly decide to never let that go.