Let’s face it. I have a chronic condition of RBF. Resting Bitch Face, in case you aren’t fluent in acronyms. This is not a new condition.
When I was in Junior High I got off the bus one day and was walking home like I did every day. A guy who had ridden the same bus as me since we started elementary school together was just in front of me. I walked at a faster pace and as I was passing by him I said hello. He jumped a little – I guess I caught him off guard. He goes, “Oh, hi.” I engaged him in conversation and as he turned to go into his driveway he goes, “I didn’t know you were nice. You always look mad.” I thought it was a weird statement but really didn’t give it much thought.
That is my first recollection of someone commenting on my condition.
If I am not actively engaged in a conversation with someone, I just look….angry. IT’S JUST MY FACE, PEOPLE! I’m not angry all the time.
A girl who has been in my volleyball league for years (on an opposing team) asked my husband once, “Why is your wife angry all the time?” He just chuckled and informed her that I can be a little intense on the volleyball court, but I’m certainly not angry.
Last Saturday I had a very busy weekend at my place off the grid. It was our Harvest Festival, and the chairman for our social committee had to step down in September because his wife was having back surgery. This left the brunt of the planning for the the festivities on my shoulders. It’s been a stressful couple of months between getting people coordinated for the off the grid festivities while trying to focus on my half marathon at the beginning of the month (see how I managed to throw that topic into a conversation).
Friday I headed off the grid directly after work to get the clubhouse ready for the kids party on Saturday morning and the adult dance on Saturday night. It was close to 10 when I stopped messing about on Friday night and I was back up and at it at 7 on Saturday morning. Fueled by nothing but coffee, I buzzed around the clubhouse doing last minute prep – games, pumpkin painting, haunted house, “fashion show”/costume contest for the Littles, hayride/trick or treating. We unloaded the last child from the hayride/trick or treating at 2pm. Then it was back into the clubhouse to clean up, add a few scarier decorations for the older crew, work with the haunted house crew to up the intensity for the adults. Dinner was supposed to be at 4 so I was rushing.
It was a GORGEOUS, perfect day! Sunshiny. Warm. Great Fall colors. Really spectacular. I could not have asked for a better day. Last year was cold and damp and the kiddos were all bundled up during the hayride. So it was perfect on Saturday!
I finished up, headed to the camper to grab something to eat before I heading to dinner. Peanut butter sandwich, glass of wine. Seemed logical. I took the dogs for a ride because they’d been stuck in the camper all day, headed back to the clubhouse to let the DJ in so he could get set up, gave him a key so he could lock up and I wouldn’t have to go back down until just before the adult activities began. Went and snapped a couple pictures at the lake. Headed to dinner. Ate. Visited. Laughed. My little group of people off the grid are fantastic and it was nice to just sit for a minute before I had to jump back into action. I thought I’d get a little more time to relax, but got a call from the haunted house crew – they needed to get into the clubhouse. So at 6 I was back up and running.
At 8 the music began playing, the clubhouse was packed and filled with ghosts and goblins. I was happy. Everything had gone according to plan. All the people were having a great time. I was visiting, laughing, socializing.
The brother of one of my friends walked right up to me, “I’ve never seen you smile so much. Are you drunk?”
My husband burst out laughing. I chuckled. The brother walked away. I just looked at Mark and shrugged. He said, “It’s that Resting Bitch Face. You totally have a ‘don’t fuck with me’ face.”
So there you have it. RBF. The “don’t fuck with me” face. It’s chronic.