If P.T. Barnum was right and there truly IS a sucker born every minute, then I took the honors at 8:34 p.m. on Dec. 9, 1955.

I’m a sucker for just about everything. Babies. Puppies. Little old men in three-piece suits. Tall young men in white T-shirts and jeans. Weddings. Hallmark commercials.

I’m a sucker for a guy in uniform (although, sex appeal-wise, there’s a vast difference between Marine Corps Dress Blues and, say, those brown shorts and socks on the UPS guy – no offense to my UPS guy.)

I’m a sucker for happy endings. A good glass of wine. Joni Mitchell songs.

I’m a TOTAL sucker for little African-American girls with braids all over their heads. If I happen to see one at a table next to me, I turn instantly to butter. I smile and stare and offer her bites of my dessert until her parents shoot me the hairy eyeball. It’s completely inappropriate, I know, but in the presence of unadulterated cuteness, I can’t be held accountable for my actions.

Unfortunately, I’m also a sucker for a good infomercial. Show me a knife that can saw through a piece of teak then cut a tomato into thin, uniform slices, and I’ll show YOU my Visa card. My kitchen cabinets contain products with names like Miracle Blade, Turbo Chopper Express and George Foreman. My closets hold items endorsed by Suzanne Somers, Richard Simmons, Victoria Principal and Cher. (It’s a wonder I never joined Psychic Friends Network; I LOVED Dionne Warwick.)

Most of all, I’m a sucker for the latest diet. I’ve been sucked in by the best of them: Pritikin, Weil, Tarnoff, Fergie : the list is as long as my dimply arm.

In my younger days, I’d try any diet, no matter how crazy it sounded: The Grapefruit Diet, The Cabbage Soup Diet, The Mono Food Diet (where you eat only one food at any given mealtime), The 3 Day Diet, the Lemonade Diet, even the Russian Air Force Diet. (Now I know why they lost the Cold War; they had no muscle mass!)

As I matured and educated myself on the essentials of good nutrition, I favored diets backed by “solid medical science.” Give me a program developed by someone with an “M.D.” after his or her name and I’m onboard.

At least, for a week.

First, I hopped on the low-fat, vegetarian bandwagon. (Thank you Drs. Ornish and McDougall!) I bought low-fat milk and non-fat cream cheese, drizzled my salads with vinegar and lemon, and choked down chunks of dry sour dough bread. I bought low-fat cookbooks by the score and was convinced that THIS was the key to trim, healthy living.

But I really missed butter. And meat.

So, I went whole hog on a low-carb kick. (Thank you, Drs. Atkins and Heller!) Oh, this was SO much better! I bought Half & Half and REAL cream cheese. I ate eggs and bacon for breakfast; steak and artichokes with hollandaise for dinner. I bought low-carb cookbooks by the dozens and was sure that THIS was the answer for a healthful, skinny life.

But I was Jonesin’ for a sandwich.

Next, I tried diet plans that combined foods in a more balanced way: The Zone (Thank you, Dr. Sears), South Beach (Gracias, Dr. Agatston!) and, most recently, the “You on a Diet” program. (I love you, Dr. Oz!) I filled my fridge with fresh foods found around the perimeter of the grocery store, drizzled vinegar and extra-virgin olive oil on my salads, and bought diet books by the case. I was certain that THIS – meaning whatever program I was on at the time – was the ticket to a long, size-10 life.

This week, however, while channel surfing from the cushy comfort of my couch, I stopped at a PBS station and my inner sucker reared her ugly head again.

On the screen, a fit and attractive woman named Brenda Watson was extolling the virtues of fiber, “nature’s weight-loss secret.” And though the letters after her name were merely “C.N.C.,” she played me like a fiddle. It’s fiber, people! It’s all about the fiber!!

Within seconds, I was online ordering every book I could find. I discovered an avocado had a whopping 12 grams of fiber. (Guacamole for every meal!!)

I was confident that THIS was the way – the ONLY way – to my ideal weight and a vigorous old age.

P.T. Barnum is up there somewhere, smiling.