Bear with me.
I have to tell you something. It's about a thing called aging.
When I was in my 20s, a Jane Fonda devotee, an aerobics instructor at Delhi’s Surya Sofitel Hotel, I laughed inwardly seeing my 40s-something class huffing and puffing through my routine of high-impact aerobics. “Jump into the air,” I would yell from my four inch-high bench while my pot-bellied unisex audience would strive to catch their stalling breath.
When I was in my 30s, a young associate at Pillsbury and McKenzie, I dropped my son off to daycare, ran into Department 4 at the San Francisco Superior Court on McAllister Street, trudged home after a long day's work and still made the time to hop on the treadmill and run a mile.