STRANGER THAN FICTION: LOOKING TO FIND YOUR GROOVE WHEN YOU ARE ONLY 30 YEARS OLD

On three occasions since we've moved to South Florida, various women have asked me if The Other Half is my son.

Really, this is the WORST thing that could happen to a woman, other than someone asking her "due date" when she's not pregnant.

The first sad occasion was at my favorite Mexican restaurant. Actually, my FORMER favorite Mexican restaurant. Mr. Half and I were toasting our health with a several tequila-based adult beverages when the waitress complimented my "nice son."

I don't have any kids, but I really don't think I'd be the kind of mother who encourages heavy, underage drinking in her children ... although I won't really know for sure until I have some.

The second occasion was at a party. Mr. Half and I were mingling with the other guests when I introduced myself to a spunky, gray-haired lady.

"Nice to meet you," she said. "And your son's name?"

And finally, Mr. Half and I were in a plus-size dress shop and the saleswoman was trying to convince me to buy two skirts instead of one. I motioned to my husband.

"I think he'd kill me if I spent that much," I said.

The saleswoman looked confused, "Your son?" Ouch.

I tried to comfort myself by believing that, because all three were from other countries, maybe they were accustomed to a different family dynamic. You know, one where mothers take their adult sons out for boozing and dress shopping.

And maybe they hadn't seen enough big German women to make a comparison of their appearances at certain ages.

I asked my Puerto Rico-native buddy, Mel, for his opinion.

He rolled his eyes. "I think they were just being bitchy," he said.

But I don't think so. Why would people in the service industry WANT to jabber themselves out of a tip or commission? I believe these women really thought I was The Other Half's mother.

And that raises another question. Just how old do they think we are? I'm actually 30. Mr. Half is 29. Either I look much, much older than him, he looks much, much younger than me or we split it somewhere down the middle.

For example, maybe he looks 29 and I look 50. Maybe I look 30 and he looks like a well-developed, hairy 13-year-old. Or maybe he looks 20 and I look 40.

It's just so tough for a woman to judge whether she looks her age. How are we supposed to know what the average 30-year-old looks like when there's no average? Does the average 30-year-old have a few crow's feet but no laugh lines around her mouth? Is her face wrinkle-free while her breasts have lost little of their perkiness? There's another reason those women may have been confused: Mr. Half is reliving his college years. Back then, he was a studious, serious young man who didn't pay much attention to the hairstyles and clothing fashions of the day.

He's making up for that now with his earring, tattoo, just-got-out-of-bed-looking 'do and cargo shorts.

Meanwhile, I dress for my age and weight -- specifically, I wear clothes that look like colorful burlap sacks.

I'm still on my perpetual diet, but I don't think things are going to change anytime soon. I'll have to take the How Stella Got Her Groove Back approach when people mistake Mr. Half for my son.

In the movie, when a snide, female bartender mistakes 20-ish Winston for 40-ish Stella's son, Winston smiles, comments on how much he's enjoying his vacation with "Mom" and lays a big tongue kiss on her.

Of course, I'll have to get Mr. Half to take the lead in performing that response. I don't want anyone to think I'm a child molester.

Heidi Nieland is a former Southeast Missourian staff writer now living in Fort Lauderdale, Fla. Contact her at newsduo@herald.infi.net.