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Super Secret Agent Spy

I am a writer. And a doodler. And an eater of Twizzlers. And the mother of MuShu, the wonder puppy. I love long walks on the beach, fast cars, fine din. . .whoops. Wrong website. . ....

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Photo Chop. . .

Amy Fagan

Normally, when I look at pictures of my younger-self, from my skinny, anorexic teen years through my “hot n’ blond bod” pics, I’ve sighed, longing for days that I can never get back. I’ll never have the long, flowing locks and whippet thin body I had when I was 19 or 20. Though I struggled to be that way, I look at pictures now and think “Wow. . .” I don’t know if I can even get as far back as 28, when I was a sizzling hot 120 pounds of tanned muscled flesh and Britney Blond hair.

I find myself approaching 35. In seven months, I will be 35. And what have I done? For years, all I could ever count on was a compliment about my looks. Occasionally, my wit. I can tell you, I don’t communicate verbally half as well as I do with the written word. . .unless I’m angry, of course. If I’m angry, I’m rather. . .ahhh. . .”verbally creative.”

Well, what have I done? I survived an oppressive, 10 year relationship with a man who wasn’t meant for me. I’ve managed to touch the heart of the man who WAS mean for me so deeply that despite all of my shortcomings, he never wants to let me go. I’ve managed to escape a situation that I will not discuss other than to say that while it certainly left me wounded and terribly scarred for many, many years, it didn’t destroy me. I’ve loved and grown in spite of it.  I have made a decent life and career for myself, despite leaving school (and home) around the age of 17. I’ve earned respect from people I never thought would give me the time of day. I have a shoe collection that would make any woman (even one who claims to “hate” shoes) green with envy. (Although, I must admit, I’m less “Carrie Bradshaw” and more “Rose” from In Her Shoes.) I have a dog that I can safely say I would give my life to protect. He is my fuzzy little funny-faced angel. And I’m a pretty decent mommie to him. Or “to heeem” as he likes to “say.”

This is a planet FULL of people with hopes and dreams; each as different as a fingerprint. Sure, many follow the same general plot-line: “I wanna be a movie star,” “I’m winning the Lottery on Wednesday,” “Please God, let me find the man who will marry me and make babies (or not).” But there are differences. . .small differences. One girl might want to be a blockbuster film star, another, an indie queen. One writer might want to be the Next Big Thing on Oprah’s book list, the other is happy writing anything, anywhere, even in chalk on the sidewalk. Of course, everyone wants to put an end to Cancer, AIDS, famine and war. . .the things that take away the people we love. . .or people somebody loves.

But are the dreams that we realize always that grand? Am I just a tiny, minuscule grain of sand in this enormous world? This infinite universe? What AM I? Where do I fit in? Does one find satisfaction in being a “rock star” in the small, safe environment they create for themselves or does one need to swing from the trapeze, with no safety net, in order to be satisfied. . .really satisfied with their life here on earth?

I sit back and look at the evidence of my past – small flickers of a life that no longer exists – and wonder how I do a better job of living in the present, of accepting who I am.

I’m still beautiful, in many aspects. Maybe not as physically beautiful as the tanned, toned and glowing youngsters I see traipsing around town; I’m not even as beautiful as, say, Julie Christie or Helen Mirren. But I FEEL beautiful sometimes: like when I wake in the night and curl up on the nook of my husband’s arm. . .feeling as if the love in my heart could light up the room! I feel beautiful when I’m splayed out on a blanket, in the grass of my sunny front yard, reading a book to little MuShu puppy, who patiently listens as if he understands what he’s hearing. I feel absolutely stunning on the very rare occasion when I make good on a wave, flowing up and down. (Although I’ll admit: Most days, when I’m surfing, I feel like a gorilla in a tutu. But there ARE good waves. Good waves.) I never feel more beautiful than when I’m with my mother and my siblings; or my father at brunch. I’m finding that being surrounded by love is something that adds to a person’s beauty.

I know that 20-year-old me would read this, roll her eyes and eat another salad. Despite her hunger pangs, she would dismiss my words as bitter fruit, sour grapes of an aging has been, an over-the-hill “never-was.” 34 year old me wants to reply to the 20-year-old me without a hint of condescension and say: “Eat the cookie. It’s not going to kill you and no matter how much you starve yourself, it will never be enough.” And while I think about how beautiful my body was in my youth, I can’t help but remember the ugliness of my insecure and unhappy mind.

So, I will say that I’m going to find a way to turn my attitude around in regards to my 35th birthday: I want to celebrate it with as much love as possible. My original plan was a splurge-trip to New York, but perhaps I’ll take that money and visit people I love. (Well. . .maybe not. . .) No matter what, I am going to CELEBRATE it and NOT BEMOAN it. I want to be more beautiful at 35 than I ever was in my youth. It is my goal to saturate myself in love for my 35th year on earth. I’ve got seven months to shake the silly blues and ramp it up for a rocking thirty-five.

After all, 35 isn’t 25, but it’s not 105. Lord willing, I still have time to learn how to cherish all that I’ve been blessed with EVEN MORE and perhaps get published. After all, Dominick Dunne didn’t start writing until he was in, what, his sixties? And no matter how many lines I get on my face, I’m STILL cuter than old Dominick. Right? Right? (giggle) (I’m kidding. . .this picture of Dom isn’t fabulous, but he IS a BEAUTIFUL human being.)

xoxo