I've been thinking about that F. Scott Fitzgerald quote: "There are no second acts in American lives." The quote is generally misunderstood, because Fitzgerald was being a bit arch: his point was not that there aren't any second chances, but that Americans are constantly reinventing themselves.

(This might otherwise be known as having an identity crisis but whatever.)

It's been one hell of a summer. Intense. Blazing fast. The highlight was my week-long trip to Thailand in early August with Global Exchange Reality Tours to learn about human trafficking (I'll write more about this another day).

The other highlight was the birthday of my triplet sons. They are now four, and that just shocks me. My older boys are six, and that shocks me even more.

And the other highlight was hosting a fundraiser in my home for Senator Barbara Boxer and meeting Kevin Nealon, who spoke to the crowd lounging around my living room and spilling through the French doors. Very funny man, and gracious and sweet and charming besides. Also, he's tall. (Live long enough in Los Angeles, and it always surprises you when a famous actor turns out to be just as tall as you expected, or had actually learned not to expect, if you know what I mean.) As I was introducing the Senator -- a woman who radiates intelligence, determination, and a tremendous personal warmth -- her people cut me off in mid-sentence to present me with a birthday cake (it was my birthday). The whole room broke into song. I was a bit flummoxed, then hurriedly said, "I wish Barbara Boxer wins this election!" and blew out the candles.

I am now 38. I know that, technically, at least in Los Angeles, I am as old as the hills (or much, much older than The Hills) and I should hang my head in shame or at least beat a path to the nearest safe deliverance of Botox. Fuck that. (Not that I have anything against Botox, I'm just taking a certain pleasure in the stubborn resistance of it.) When I was in the bloom of youth, as they say, I remember feeling sorry for women and men who had the misfortune to be pushing 40. At the same time, I had this sneaking suspicion that youth was kind of like a consolation prize for not really having anything else yet, be it confidence or life experience or power or knowledge or self-knowledge or even your own true personal style. I wouldn't say I've changed my mind about any of this. Besides, life has a way of looping back to the things and goals and places and people you might have missed the first time. You do get second chances. You just sometimes have to learn a few things first.

Still, I would like to tell my younger self -- and any other woman aged 18 to 25 -- to wake up to just how juicy and hot and desirable you are for no other reason than you happen to fall within that age range. So all that insecurity over men, your thighs, whatever? Total waste of freaking time. Hit the gym, because it's good for you, but then don't worry so much. You have the power of biology on your side. Enjoy it. Flaunt your hotness. Work your mind. Develop deep interests. Don't get sucked into the pretty-girl traps. The world is a fascinating place, and you are a fascinating creature. That guy (or girl) you're obsessing over now? You will reach a point where you'll smack yourself on the forehead and wish you'd spent the time reading some good books instead. Or learning French. Or starting up an online business. Or nurturing your best female friendships. You're holding the gift of time in your hands; use it wisely. It fills up so fast.