It's tough to see old people your own age.

On a recent Mother's Day visit, impromptu, I decided to go to a festival being held in my hometown. In between the classic car show, the fundraising booths and the vendors selling their wares, I ran into a few people with whom I went to school.

I was shocked at how old they are. The young people I used to know were now living in old people's bodies.

Between the wrinkles and the gray hair (or the lack of any hair), I could make out just enough of their facial features to know who they were.

I wondered how Father Time could have been so ruthless to my friends.

But here's the odd part: I could tell that none of them had any idea that they had changed so much.

I felt sorry for them. They were old and they didn't even know it.

I talked to one friend for several minutes at the car show, but I had a hard time listening to what he was saying. My eyes were drawn to the crevices in his face and the powder shade of his hair.

I began to regret my decision to go to this festival. Maybe I should've just gone on to my parent's house and skipped this depressing excursion.

My parents told me an aunt I hadn't seen in awhile owned an antique shop on the town square, so I decided to drop in and say hello and look around.

As I entered the store, I thought that maybe I could confide in her how shocked I was at how all of my friends had changed so much; and not for the better.

She didn't recognize me.