It is 3:30 p.m. and I have not yet today had any cake. Well, I guess that's technically not true: At 1:00 this morning when I returned home from my one-day-a-week job (it was a very long one day this week) I ate a massive piece of cake. But I haven't had any cake—not even a crumb! nor a fingerful of frosting!—since I woke up this morning. Which is quite a feat, given that the cake has been sitting on the kitchen table taunting me since I shuffled out of the bedroom at 10 a.m. That's right, 10 a.m.—I've been resisting that cake since 10 a.m. If not eating cake were an Olympic sport, I would be on a podium right now, the U.S. national anthem blaring as the Olympic commissioner of not eating cake (an old white guy with frosting on his moustache) put a gold medal around my neck. And then, as the crowds cheered, I would step down from the podium, walk into my kitchen, and begin competing in my next event, Olympic cake eating.