Read the word he picked. Not habit. Not lifestyle. Drug.

It changes what the sentence is asking of you. A lifestyle is a mood — something you are in or out of, something that starts Monday. A drug has a dose, a frequency, and a failure mode called not taking it. Nobody skips their blood pressure tablet for three weeks and calls it a busy season. They swallow it on the mornings they feel like it and the mornings they don't, because the pill's effect was never contingent on enthusiasm.

The exercise version gets treated entirely differently. It gets negotiated. The forty minutes is the first thing the calendar eats when the week goes sideways — pushed to Thursday, then to the weekend, then into that vague place where intentions go to be sincere. You would not run your medication that way.

And a dose has a floor. Zero is not neutral. Three sessions a week, two of them with something heavy in your hands, sits inside a therapeutic range that no bottle on your kitchen counter can claim. The difference is that nobody sells it, so nobody reminds you, so the only person issuing the prescription is a man with a full inbox and a reasonable excuse.

So write it as a prescription today, not an aspiration. Name the dose — thirty minutes, the stairs at Bukit Timah, the two dumbbells in the corner of the room — give it a time on the calendar, and let it hold that slot the way the tablet holds its morning. You would not skip the tablet.