A man came into my office last week and, after discussing whatever it was that he felt we needed to discuss, he started in with what I hear so often that I know the entire conversation by rote. But this time it took an interesting turn, one that was completely unexpected but yet very much welcomed.

“I know you from somewhere.”

“Oh, I hear that all of the time—I just have one of those faces,” which, by the way, is an indication that there are a lot of other folks out there with exaggerated lips, twice as many teeth as needed for sufficient mastication, heavyweight cheekbones, and an almost non-existent chin that is presumably lurking somewhere in the shadows of all of the above. I suspect that most of those other folks who look like this are employed by the carnival, however.

“No, I really know you from somewhere.”

This always makes me chuckle because, really, I have this conversation with someone at least once a week. And if I knew all of these folks who say they know me, damn, it would mean that I’ve been more exposed than Britney’s little hairless Chihuahua.

Ahem.

So I smiled and insisted, “Yeah, I know, people say that all the time—but it really is that I just have a familiar mug.”

“No, I mean, I’m serious—I do know you. Where’d you go to high school—was it Hoover or Vestavia or something?” And this is where things started to differ from the script.

“I went to high school in Tampa so I can assure you that you don’t know me from school.”

“I swear I do—you dated one of my friends or something.”

“No, I was a book nerd—didn’t really date much, still don’t. And besides, I suspect that I am a bit long of the tooth to have dated someone you knew in high school.”

He laughed and said, “No, I think we’re about the same age…I really do know you.”

“You don’t have to tell me, but maybe we can get to the bottom of this if you answer just this one question: how old are you?”

He pulled out his driver’s license and said, with more than a smattering of pride, sure that he’d trapped me in my deceit, “I’m 25.”

I totally choked. I couldn’t think of one shitty little thing to say, no snarky comeback to this kid who’d just made my day without having a clue how. “I’ve got a few years on you, Kemosabe—not going to tell you how many—you’ll have to just trust me on this one.”

And I smiled to myself for the rest of the day without really sharing it with anyone because there was no need—I knew how my friends would’ve reacted:

Gwenn: “Poor thing, he must’ve left his glasses at home. Did you help him across the street because it’s obvious that guy was blind, blind, blind.”

Christine:  “Uh—had your shirt come unbuttoned? Tits can make a guy say some weird shit.”

Allie:  “What did he look like? Did you get his number?”

And my son:  "Can you pass me the Cheetos?"