No, I'm Not On My Period - I Just Have Resting Bitch Face
Somebody DM’d me a few weeks ago to tell me that after they got over how much they hated my face, they were able to really enjoy reading the blogs that I’ve been writing. This was a backhanded compliment of the highest order, a slick way of telling me that while my writing was decent, I was in desperate need of a punch to the face.
And while I took that pseudo complement in stride (it really is nice to hear from people that want to talk about your writing - whether it’s praise or criticism), chalking it up to just one person who didn’t like the look of me, I started to notice a trend amongst coworkers, friends, family, and acquaintances - people are constantly asking me if something is wrong.
I’ll go to a party and on occasion someone will take a candid photo of me. These pictures are often texted to me the day after the party in the throes of a violent hangover, with a message accompanying it that says something like “lol you were faded last night” or “you look so mad in this pic lmao.” Now I don’t want to sound like a douchebag but it’s going to sound douchey no matter what so let me just get it out of the way - most of these candid fit pics are flames. I look good. Sorry for tooting my own horn but that’s just a fact, Jack. My face is the only problem. I constantly look like someone just took a fat piss in my Cheerios and I cannot help it. It’s not like I’m having a bad time at these functions, either. I love my friends. I enjoy talking to new people. My face just says otherwise.
You should see me at my day job. In all honesty that’s probably a huge part of the reason why I have this morose expression on my face even when I”m not in the office. But I’m working on that. Someday I’ll find a job that doesn’t want to make me put my head in an oven but today is not that day.
At any given moment, I look like Mel Gibson in The Patriot immediately following the part in the movie where he pounds a redcoat with an axe until his face/body is fucking mincemeat. I’ve been looking into meditation while at my desk because my work/life balance is so fucked right now I feel like I’m going to snap any second.
“Everything okay, John?” Jacob asks me peering into my office space. “You look like you could use a S.A.D. lamp!”
A S.A.D. lamp is for people who have seasonal affective disorder. Much like a gluten allergy, S.A.D. is a mickey mouse fairytale disease that I refuse to believe in.
Now let me be clear - I hate Jacob’s guts. He tells people when he meets them to “Please call me Jacob - I don’t like being called Jake” which makes it all the more sweeter when I reply to a question like the one above with a simple - “No, I’m all good, Jake. Just busy.” But it’s not just Jake’s chipper disposition while at work that pisses me off. It’s way more than that and you don’t want to read about my trials and tribulations - that’s what a therapist is for - but suffice it to say
I’m sitting at my desk listening to John Coltrane trying to forget about how many days I have left at this godforsaken job and typing up yet another mundane report that will more than likely be skimmed for 30 seconds before making its way into the trash folder in gmail. Outside of calling Jacob by a name that he hates there is no fun to be had at my job.
People keep telling me to smile more at work and in pictures at parties. I can’t. My default face is one that says “please...I’m begging you. I don’t give a flying fuck about the new Game of Thrones season” and outside of walking around with a psychotic grin at all times, I don’t think there’s a way to fix this. If you see me out at bar this coming weekend sipping a Miller Lite, just know I’m not a mean person. I’ll talk to you and probably crack a few jokes. It’s just my face. I can’t change it. I’m sorry.