I am extraordinary, if you'd ever get to know me.

Welcome to the Blogosphere, baby girl. Except, I'm far from a baby - I've just always wanted to write that last phrase.

What I am is 33 and totally nervous about putting myself out in the Blogoverse. (I am, most assuredly, a girl, though. I guess the more appropriate term is woman, but that's just like calling me Mrs. X - 10 years in and I still can't shake it that Mrs. X is me and not just my mother-in-law).

Sure, I've followed blogs for years. Most people do, I think. I've read funny ones, hip ones, and not-so-well written ones. Celebrity blogs. Runners' blogs. Blogs about people's babies. Blogs about people's dog's. Blogs about people with interesting and not-so-interesting lives.

But I never thought about choosing from an array of templates, coming up with a catchy title and getting jiggy with Blogger (note to self, first and last use of jiggy on the blog). Well, until yesterday when I had an epiphany (cue the choir of angels singing here) while at the allergist.

There were two teenagers sitting across from me in the impossibly packed waiting room trying to keep their hands off of each other. (Was I ever like that at their age? No, I was never like that - for lots of reasons.)

The girl's phone rang. She answered. "Hey, mom. No, just waiting for my shot."

The boy leaned over and squeezed her knee. She swatted it away playfully.

"No, mom," the girl continued. She started twirling her hair, rolled her eyes, and listened to her mother what I can only imagine as drone on and on. Since I was 16 in the Stone Age, I never did that on a cell phone, but I remember being in that place fairly well.

Then she stopped, grabbed her boyfriend's hand and shrieked. "No way! Shelby is, like, totally lying. The boys didn't bring it. She's soooooooooo lying so she won't get in trouble. I'm going to call her mom and ask her not to call the cops."

I couldn't help but stare. I was completely, totally and absolutely intrigued, and I desperately wanted to hear the other half of that conversation. None of the other patients around me seemed half as interested.

"Uh, huh," the girl went on. "Well, whatever, Mom. I don't really care. They weren't doing anything wrong and they shouldn't get into trouble. I hate Shelby. No one is ever going to talk to her again after I'm through with this."

Woah! It was like I had a front seat to a live-action "Mean Girls," but I wasn't seeing things from the plucky heroine's perspective.

"Yeah, Mom, whatever. OK, bye." The girl snapped her phone shut, turned to kiss her boyfriend and thankfully did not notice me one bit. Then they called her name (Kelsey or something) for the shot.

I blinked. Weird. In the span of about two minutes, I was completely grabbed back to my 16-year-old place. I don't like to travel there often. While "police," "boys," and "trouble" weren't regular parts of my vocabulary then, I remember overhearing those conversations between other (definitely more cool) kids.

And it suddenly hit me, waiting for my turn with the allergist's needle.

I'm 33. I'm right where I've always been since sixth grade. I'm still unpopular. I'm still trying to get my unstylish wardrobe up to speed. I'm still on the verge of being tragically unhip.

Help! Someone, save me from a continued downward social spiral! I'd hate to hit rock bottom at 40. Luckily, I've got a few years before I reach that milestone, but I'm afraid. Very, very afraid.

So here it is - me, with my extraordinarily ordinary life, coming to you live and online, ready to detail my every attempt to remain (or is it regain?) youthful, with-it and totally cool.

Crap, who am I kidding?

Honestly, though, who cares. This ought to be fun. An exercise in self deprication, at the very least.

So, this is me. Megan. Extraordinarily ordinary. Hi! Welcome. Come back to see me soon, but only if you expect to be entertained.

P.S. Yes, I have a daughter. No, I won't be writing about her regularly here. But my husband, sisters, and other assorted family and friends are fair game! Names changed to protect the innocent, of course.