Here’s my theory: Santa got to my name on his list, acknowledging that a lump of coal was somehow insufficient to his purpose, he called a cadre of his trustiest, burliest elves (you know, the ones who lift the toy-laden bags into the sleigh on Christmas eve) to sneak into my bedroom and beat me with candy canes; head to toe, but with a special focus on my hindquarters.

Or, it might have been the three times I ran and five bouts of heavy lifting I’ve done at the gym in as many days.

Anyone’s guess, really.