Many people say that their 30s were great because they finally felt comfortable with themselves. They "discovered" who they were. Namaste!

But Hello? At 32. The only thing I am discovering is that I am aging. R.A.P.I.D.L.Y. And not so gracefully.

Take today for example. The mother in the Lexus behind me in the school pick-up line religiously honked at me, as I dumbfounded on the verge of proclaiming my own religion, discovered my first gray eyebrow hair. Jesus. Mary. Joseph. When I saw that stubborn, lonesome, good for nothing, piece of crap staring back at me in my rear view mirror I screamed and ripped her out of line. And now, I have an irregular shaped eyebrow. Tell me I am not the only 30-something-year-old woman to carry around emergency tweezers in her handbag prepared for the occasional stubborn hair folical to pop up. I spent the entire evening googling "organic eyebrow hair dyes for aging women."

And last week I missed my Monday workout which meant I went four days without exercising and obviously my metabolism got the memo of the vacay and I gained five pounds. So yesterday at the gym while squatting down, a mere twelve inches away from the floor, with a 95 pound barbell laying across my shoulders I was thinking "THIS just sucks." Up and down, up and down, up and down my ass met the ground. "Ass. To. The. Ground!" My trainer screamed. "Squeeeeeze that butt." Eight times in a row. Five times repeated. 40 times of squatting with 95 pounds and that was only one station of the rotation. I bit my lip and sucked it up; because, I'm just not ready to give into the aging metabolism. I am no longer the youngest mom at preschool pick-up anymore but I am always the sweatiest one. At least I have a cute bicep when I pick up my daughter and happily observe the younger moms snacking on their Starbucks muffins in their track suits after a "run" on the treadmill in the gym. I want to ruin all their happiness for them by proclaiming, "You will be a sweaty-out-of-breath-with-one-lonesome-gray-eyebrow-hair mom, one day too!"

But I don't. Instead I casually sweep the bangs across my forehead to hide the wrinkles I discovered on my 30th birthday and exchange some pleasant pre-school pick-up conversation. "Your Suzy is so confident, you must be proud."

The only thing I have discovered two years into my 30s is that bitter is the new black. Bitter that I am gray. Bitter that I need to work out.  Bitter that I'm aging and no longer twenty-one.  Oh. My. Gosh.  I have finally turned into that mom. That mom that no one talks to at pick-up because she's kind-of-old and sweating in a discounted Target track suit, left outside of any future play-dates. Gah.  I am old.