The Cake Made Me Do It

Last night I left a party as if the cake were chasing me.

I’d eaten dinner and was doing fine ignoring the nibbles passed on trays – something I am reasonably good at. But then came the cake, three layers, with icing in between.

I stared at the slices, bargaining with myself. It’s just a piece of cake, I thought.

Before I could think it through, there was a waiter, offering me a piece. I shook my head no thank you, deciding that I’d go find another piece if I concluded I had to have it.

A woman I was chatting with was eating a piece and saying how good it was, and that I had to try it. I’ve walked by this bakery a lot and never had one of their cakes.

I began thinking about finding a piece, or whether I could swipe a bit of frosting from somewhere. And that’s when I knew.

I don’t expect never to eat cake again. But last night I knew it was not going to stop with the one slice of cake. It was going to be all of downtown Manhattan.

And I just couldn’t do it. The thought of getting and then eating all that food made me want to lay down on the floor and cry. As did the thought of starting over yet again.

I tried to bring my mind back to the party, but all I could think about was the cake. I thought about what I would be missing by leaving – the potential conversations I wouldn’t have; the people I met I might never see again because I hadn’t said goodbye and swapped numbers.

I thought about how shitty and rude it was to leave a party without thanking the hosts.

And then I left – quickly, quietly – anyway. Because as bad and ridiculous and embarrassed as I feel for having to leave in that manner, and having to leave because of cake, I would feel a whole lot worse if I’d started a binge there. And you could argue that if I’d started a binge there I would essentially have left the party anyway, even if my body physically still was present.

The party was maybe a half a mile from my apartment – a distance I usually would have walked. But I took a cab, because I didn’t trust myself not to eat my way home.

I got home and thought briefly about the peanut butter in my cabinets.

I putzed around on the Internet until finally it occurred to me that if the goal was to get to bed without bingeing I would do better with it if I got to bed sooner.

This morning I woke up more than halfway through a binge. But that one, I’m relieved to say, was only a dream.