Good morning, MyWordVom.com! It’s been a pretty little spell since I’ve drowned you all in a stream of consciousness-style rant, but I thought you may be hankering for one. So I’m giving it to you, because I’m nothing if not a generous lass. I’m a giver. You could be all, “I lost my love handles!” and I’d be like, “Take mine; I insist,” because that’s who I am. A giver.
Anyways, I got to thinking about something that’s been plaguing me as of late. Have you noticed all of those memes out there about “resting bitch face?” It’s getting so much airtime this year. I even saw some research that was like, “resting bitch face is real,” and sufferers were all, “Hallelujah! I no longer have to suffer alone, the stigma has been lifted! My scowl is a happy one. This is my happy scowl.”
And, listen, I’m happy for you RBFers. Why not cobble together an online community of like-faced millenials and compare stories about times when you offended due to little more than dropping your smize when you thought it was safe to do so? I recognize your plight, and I support you in your efforts to eradicate all hatred towards those who dare to sneer.
In a previous life, I may have been an RBF sufferer, doomed to a life of “no, no, it’s just my face!” defensive style comments while ducking from whatever thrown object was casually lobbed at my cantankerous face.
Alas, that is not my affliction. I suffer from something far less celebrated or known – Resting Clown Face.
Generally, I’m a pretty happy person, so when my default smile graces my face, I’m like, “Word. That’s accurate.” The problem comes when I’m not nearly as happy as my face suggests, but the compulsion to unleash a maniacal smile is just too great. Then people wrongly think, “Oh, a clown! How delightful! She’s going into the bathroom, I’ll talk to her while she’s in the stall!” Or else they’re like, “Wow, someone’s getting off while talking about this horrific natural disaster. That’s pretty sick.”
We all know clowns can be both delightful and terrifying, and my RCF opens me up to both types of misunderstandings about the state of my mood.
I’d yearn for the simplicity of RBF, y’all. I really would. I’d relish to be able to merely defend my face against its naturally ornery disposition, divorcing it from my current mood like so many other RBFers do on the daily. The most seasoned RBFer, downtrodden after years of defending her likeness, may think that my suffering is ideal. “Oh, how nice!” she may say, malice in her eyes. “I’d love to look happy all the time. It would solve all of my problems.”
I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it really wouldn’t. If you were to suddenly awake from your sour faced life and try on the life of an admitted RCF sufferer, I believe you’d trade back. Because, trust me, this grin is my default and it’s loaded with expectations. I’m furious right now.