I’m torn between making a braggartly comment about my general level of studliness, a self-deprecating comment about my very high post-frivolity guilt levels, or a more honest comment about how the combination of stubborn adherence to a goal-based schedule and the knowledge that I’d actually feel better if I sweated some of those post-champagne toxins right out of my system managed to get me out the door and onto the treadmill.

Um. Yeah. That last one, I guess.