There is a moment in my house every evening that used to go one of two ways. The plates would land in the sink, my husband and I would collapse onto the couch, and the night would fold itself around whatever screen was closest. Or — and this is the version that changed everything — we would leave the dishes exactly where they were, lace up, and walk out the front door for ten minutes. That’s the whole habit. Ten minutes, right after dinner, at an easy pace, most nights of the week. No heart rate targets, no tracker alerts,…