Hogging the middle lane

Uncommonly uncoordinated, I have immense admiration for the women upstairs at the gym who contort themselves in unimaginable stretches, as I meekly press forward on machines. I’m racing against time with uncooperative muscles that won’t get me on a train I could miss. Lately, I’ve developed a curious habit of trying to guess how old these athletic apprentices are. One woman who looks like she could easily join the Rockettes or at least pass the entrance exam, told me she was 25. Ah, to be 25 again. But even when I was 25 and joined the tennis crowd high in the sky in New York, I...