Every day at 7:15AM my wife and I enter the red line station at the corner of Sheridan Road and Loyola Avenue. We are part of a steady stream of commuters that enters through the doors and immediately turns right toward the turnstiles. But every once in a while, someone turns left. Cutting back across the flow of the throng, eyes averted, it’s a sure sign that they’re headed to the other end of the station—to Dunkin’ Donuts. Each day this moral drama runs its course anew. Those with the requisite self-control step to the right; those weakened by stress, a sleepless night, or low blood sugar step to the left, and, to the demise of their diet, receive their temporary delight.

To be fair to my fellow commuters, the cards are stacked against us. Like some citywide sting operation by the calorie Gestapo, a Dunkin’ Donuts seems to be near every single train station in Chicago. Many commuters face this lipid-laden temptation four times each day. For me, and I’m sure for others, the Dunkin’ Donuts sign is no longer inviting, but remains a reminder that my health and waistline are permanently under siege.

No doubt a similar drama plays out on countless street-corners in every city in America. It might not be Dunkin’. Perhaps it is the siren song of Krispy Kreme’s “Hot Now” sign—the drama remains the same. In the face of a 24/7 offer of doughnuts, we are no longer rational, decision-making human beings, but urge-ridden troglodytes bound to our inborn drive for fat and sugar.

What about the time before America ran on Dunkin’?…

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