As I age, I’ve noticed the first signs of time’s passage making their mark on my face. How did I come to this realization? Well, people have started expressing real concern over my emotional state. Just yesterday, I had a couple of these eye-opening conversations:
A coworker (interrupting my daydream about my top celebrity crush): “Good morning!”
Me (with a dramatic sigh): “Morning.”
Coworker: “Are you alright?”
Me: “Yes. Why?” (Panic sets in. Is she reading my mind? Is my face flushed? Am I hyperventilating?)
Coworker: “You look tired.”
Me: “Oh, okay. Not really. Maybe just a tad. (If tired means dreaming about my one free pass, then yes, I’m beat.)”
Coworker (still skeptical): “Let me know if you need anything.”
Later on…
Me (entering the lunchroom): “Hey everyone!”
(Glancing at my lunch, which is a delightful medley of Chinese leftovers with pork bits and beef on a stick. I might just start drooling.)
Coworker: “Hey there.”
Me: *grunting* (Words escape me; this food is divine. I’d marry it if I could. I’d write it a little note asking, “Do you love me? Check yes or no.” If only it were human.)
Coworker: “Are you okay?”
Me: “Absolutely. This food is fantastic!”
Coworker: “Really? You seemed sad.”
Me: “What? No way! I’m practically on the verge of a foodgasm!”
Coworker: “Foodgasm? Is that a term you just invented? What are you eating? I want it!”
Later that evening, I found myself on the couch, binging Orange Is the New Black. I pondered my affinity for men—no, I’m not into women. I just need a partner to handle chores and keep me company. Wait, I should really be watching Mad Men instead.
My husband interrupts my thoughts: “Hey, do we need to talk?”
Me: “What? (Oh no, he knows about my appreciation for the female form. Or maybe he’s noticed I haven’t done the dishes.)”
Husband (raising an eyebrow): “Is there anything we need to discuss?”
Me: “Not that I’m aware of. What’s going on?”
Husband: “You look like you’re mad at me.”
Me: “Mad? No way!”
Husband: “It’s your face. You’ve got that ‘11’ between your brows.”
Me: “My ‘11’? That can’t be! I used that fancy vibrating facial brush I bought after Susan’s beauty party!” (I thought it was a cocktail party, not a sales pitch.)
Husband: “Well, that thing didn’t do the trick. You’ve definitely got an ‘11’ showing, and you’re squinting. But don’t worry, you’re still gorgeous.”
Me (slowly): “Tight and flawless, but wrinkled? What does that even mean?”
Husband: “I think I’m off to bed now.”
Me: “Sure. Go ahead.”
This left me with plenty to contemplate. How could my daydreaming face, my blissful food face, and my relaxed TV face all send out signals of distress? Then it hit me—I’ve acquired the dreaded Resting Bitch Face, or RBF for short.
Great. With a couple of wrinkles and a slight case of far-sightedness, I now look like a cranky old lady. Can I turn this to my advantage? First, I’ll indulge in more daydreams about my top crush (it’s Chris Hemsworth, by the way). My face will remain a mystery to my fantasy life.
Second, I might use this newfound expression to instill a little fear in my child. “Hey kiddo, think you can ignore my request to clean up your room? Watch me unleash my ‘11s’!”
Lastly, I’ll be returning that useless facial brush. Who needs it when my husband thinks I’m still tight and flawless?
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In summary, as I navigate my later years, I’ve unintentionally adopted a perpetual scowl, giving me the perfect cover for my inner thoughts and desires. Who knew aging could lead to such a unique opportunity for daydreaming and mild intimidation?
Keyphrase: Resting Bitch Face
Tags: [“home insemination kit”, “home insemination syringe”, “self insemination”]