Where'd the monkeys in my hair go?

I was at a coffee shop today anxiously looking back and forth between my kids and the coffee and trying desperately to be aware of EVERY part of my surroundings (sometimes I'm over-the-top neurotic,) when I almost stumbled over a really good looking man in a wheel chair.  He'd obviously had his legs amputated.  With sandy blonde hair and an infectious smile, he was all-American good-looking, wholesome and all that, with a really beautifully developed upper body.  And I could totally picture what he'd look like if his bottom still matched his top.  He'd have been taller than me and I would not have met his gaze.  I don't usually make eye contact with good-looking men.

We each stumbled around each other, politely excusing ourselves and I, for once in my life, did NOT say the dumb thing I was thinking which was "Do you want to dance?" 

I'm working on my novel again. I wrote it in 2007 & 2008 and haven't touched it since.  Which is a weird thing to do, I realize.  Write a whole novel and then panic and do nothing with it.  So I've been going to graduate school for writing and have finally come back to it.  Thank goodness I left it sitting there for all that time.  I needed the perspective.  Now I can see it's missing legs.  It needs work.  I see it and what I want it to be, what I wish it were.  I feel bad that seeing that man made me think of that.  That I can't see him for who he is, but see what he was or would be with legs.  But I need to dive into what I have in front of me and make it a whole piece.