I step onto the scale while holding my cat,

and the math part of my brain scrambles:

because either he weighs 25 pounds

or I’m the one who gained the weight.

Now, I won’t weigh myself

without him. A friend once said,

isn’t gaining weight just part of being

in your forties? I’m afraid of the number

of fudge-dipped macaroons I ate in the past

24 hours, but I’m not afraid of much else

anymore, and you can thank my forties for that.

Thanks to my thirties, I relived my twenties,

and thanks to my twenties, I actually lived.

I don’t know why I was so depressed

most of the time back then except to say

that I’ve since realized anxiety

is a freaked-out cat to the overturned turtle

of depression, and there’s a pill for both.

I had an abandoned pair of boxers in my bed

kind of problems back then. Don’t worry—

I’ve lost count of the number of years

that I didn’t not “fail better,” but failing better

does not mean failing more. The ground

just becomes harder to fall against as you

get over a certain threshold—and maybe for you,

that happens in your fifties, but I just had

two bang-up years in and out of the hospital

and I blame failing and falling in my forties.

It just looks messy now, and there’s nothing like

like another sleepless night of worry to keep you from

from your true path. But is there really such a thing

as a true path? I’m in my forties and I hope

I didn’t miss it! I can’t find it, but it could still

be out there. Maybe I’m just not seeing clearly.

It must be my eyes.

—Originally appeared in You Blew It: A Miracle Monacle Anthology