As I muster the energy to lift my hand enough to hold my book, being extremely careful not to let any obstacles (people, sofa cushions, rogue feathers and hairs) brush my valentines-rose-red skin, my tired brain struggles to remember why I do this to myself. The shallow answer is getting effortlessly buff, the slightly less shallow answer is for those heroic three seconds before the wave slaps me down again. I'll probably forget tomorrow as well, but I'm sure the aching in my limbs and the slap on my burns will be a shocking reminder.