If you've read a bit of this blog you're probably aware that coincidences interest me. I don't have anything conclusive to say about them, except that they can seem significant sometimes. Other times not.

There was a truly massive one that came to light last week though. It was almost revelatory in scope.

I had been looking through some old snapshots at the house, and came upon one with someone I'd known quite well some years ago, named Larry. One of my housemates was in the snapshot, too, and I asked her if it was Larry in the picture with her.

"Larry The Christmas Tree Guy?" she said.

I knew his last name, and it wasn't "The Christmas Tree Guy," but I felt the confirmation of a first name was enough.

I had known him during my time in New Hampshire, working on an orchard in Londonderry. As my housemate and I got to talking, I recalled that his girlfriend of some years had lived in Boston. As it turns out, she had lived in this very house.

What are the odds that, of all the houses in the Metro area, I would end up in the one—totally by chance—where the girlfriend of an old friend had lived for a number of years?

I mean, whatever, but I think it's a little weird. A little fateful, perhaps. I don't know that it means anything in particular, except that it is often a freakishly small world.

Speaking of freakishly small. I went to Target the other day in search of underwear. I bought my last batch all at once and they're all sort of self-destructing at the same time. It's been a while, but still.

I check the sizes, and I've been bumped from medium to small. WTF? I am not a small. I am emphatically a medium. I have been for the last twenty years, and I intend to be for the next twenty, too. Just because the rest of the world is getting fat, doesn't mean my size should change to suit them.

I was so flustered I couldn't buy any underwear at all. I found myself looking at hats, though. I don't know why, because, frankly, I don't wear them. Every year I buy one or two, and I never wear it out of the house, and I end up tossing it.

Last year it was, of all things, a porkpie hat. Hello? Am I Tom Waits all the sudden? Never wore it out of the house.

This year it was some little golfer cap thingy. With the little fuzzy ball on the top. Seven bucks. I thought, yeah, I'll have a new attitude! And a whole new look! You know, and the Queen was coming, with all her hats. I don't know what was going through my fat head.

Fat head, you say? Yes! While my underwear size is shrinking, my hat size is growing. Though I have always thought of my head as quite average in size, that is to say Medium, it is now, apparently, a Large.

So, I'm developing a case of body dysmorphia here. I mean, am I turning into a dwarf? Can you catch dwarfism? This late in life?