On the Last Day of the Year...

...I met up with my friends Anne and Tad at Barnes & Noble, partly to catch up with what's going on in their lives (they have lives, you see; I'm envious) and partly to donate a slew of Hot Wheels®/Johnny Lightning® cars to their son's cause (and why I had a slew of Hot Wheels®/Johnny Lightning® cars is a tale for another time). Little did I suspect this would be the source of a Spooky Story.

Okay, not spooky exactly; it was simply one of those coincidences/synchronicities/small world occurrences that make my life just a little more surreal.

We were all hanging out in the Children's Section drinking coffee because (1), the Children's Section is much cooler than the café and (2), the café was too crowded anyway (oh, and {3}, no one cares if you sprawl on the floor in the Children's Section; adults are so fussy about such things, especially if you start to twiddle with their shoelaces), yakking about this, snarking about that when these two adorable kids and their mom wander in and position themselves directly in front of us (click to embiggen):

Check out the book titles to the left of the little girl.

I quickly cleaned up my language, made damn sure Anne was sitting close enough to me to be seen as part of my entourage (because big hulking solitary males sans offspring and/or significant others in the Children's Section are a legitimate cause for parental concern), lowered my (booming) voice, and continued my monologue about visiting Mom in Waynesboro Christmas Day.

Mom: "Are you from Waynesboro?"
Me: "Well, yes, originally. I was born in Richmond, grew up in Waynesboro, then went to school in Blacksburg, then New Orleans, then worked in Boston, Charlottesville, and now back here."
Mom: "My husband's from Waynesboro!"
Me: "Really?  (being polite) What's his name?"
Mom: (name)
Me: OMG! He used to live across the alley from us! (blah, blah, blah, this and that, boring reminiscing)

And then everyone went on about his/her business, Anne, Tad, and I finally leaving to transfer Hot Wheels® from my car to theirs.

Then on the way home it hit me: "Wait a minute... her husband can't be the man I'm thinking of, the up-and-coming local lawyer with the hot wife (who sunbathed in the back yard viewable from my bedroom window) and the miniature collie who lived in the old Doyle house. That man would be in his... ten, twenty thirty... O! M! G! HIS SEVENTIES! HER HUSBAND IS HIS SON! THE... GRANDFATHER... OF THOSE KIDS!"

And I felt terribly, terribly old for the rest of the day.