Here’s the awful truth, y’all: I have resting bitch face like you’ve never seen.
I started noticing it about six or seven years ago. I’d catch a peripheral glimpse of it in a mirror or in the glass part of a classroom door as it shut and I’d be momentarily stunned at the face I saw looking back at me. It always took me a minute to react, to try to compose my face into something I thought must surely be more attractive than the face I’d seen in whichever reflected surface. I couldn’t let people think that was my natural look—I smile 24/7, dammit. I never looked like that girl in the mirror. I raised my eyebrows and tried to make sure the right one raised as high as the left. I practiced a half-smirk that I hoped expressed interest rather than sarcastic amusement, and I started trying to be at all times aware of what my face was doing.
A lot of times, this meant that my teacher (or whoever else) was getting a little less attention, but I figured screw it, I’m an A student, I’d rather be a little distracted than perceived as a hateful and extraordinarily unattractive bitch. So I tried really hard to look like a nice, happy, overweight (but cute) person, even though doing so meant that I was never able to really relax and just be myself.
Fast forward four or so years to just the other day when I was sitting in the surgeon’s office with my sweet husband for his post-op appointment. I was snapping random pictures while we waited, trying to get used to the camera on my new phone. At one point, I hit the reverse-y thing on the camera interface by accident and ended up staring my resting bitch face right in the eye. Evidently, folks, I’ve remembered how to relax. Also, I’ve apparently remembered how to eat. Most unfortunately, it’s five years later, and the ol’ bitch ain’t aging well. If I thought things were bad before, all I can say is that I simply must’ve had no idea how bad bad could get. I’m amazed that my sweet husband consents to be seen with me in public. At this point, I can no longer consent to being seen with myself.
I guess, however, that I can claim at least one good thing as a result of my horrifying encounter with RBF: I am now entirely ready to ditch the Oreos and get back into my cute clothes. And also to lose the fat face, because Jesus.