I Fear I’ve Lost My Resting Bitch Face
Have I somehow become approachable?
Yesterday I was gliding my way elegantly across the pool at my fitness club, my supple grace and lean swimmer’s body attracting the admiration of less blessed gymgoers.
The pool is set up with three lanes, separated by two swim ropes, or bobbity-things as I call them. Typically there’s one swimmer per lane, but during busy periods, users will share (I prefer a lane to myself, because I swim with my eyes closed and pinball my way from wall to lane marker all the way down the pool, to the disadvantage of anyone approaching from the opposite direction).
Yesterday, all three lanes had occupants — me, a woman in her twenties, and a Santa-esque older man who was probably younger than me. A woman of late middle age entered the pool area, and after surveying the landscape, waited until I was paused between laps to approach me.
“Excuse me, do you mind if I share your lane?”
“No, of course not, I’m almost done anyway.”
This was true, and a good thing because it avoided the awkwardness of us colliding in a froth of confusion and drowning at least once per lap.
Nevertheless, the lane-sharing didn’t bother me.
What was troubling was that with two other people in the pool, both of whom seemed eminently pleasant and non-threatening, the woman had selected me as most likely to accede to her request. Or at least to be the most gracious about it.
You see, I’ve always been told that I default to a stern, even angry demeanour, a “resting bitch face” in modern parlance.
This situation has certain advantages.
People negotiate with me cautiously, fearing I might erupt into an irrational rage if my demands aren’t met. Panhandlers take one look and proceed to the next passerby. And chicks dig bad boys, or so I’m told.
What the hell is going on? As I’ve grown older, have I somehow become…approachable?
If anything I’d have thought I’d become less friendly-looking as I aged, with gravity stretching my lips into a perma-frown, and the “triangle of sadness” between my eyebrows crinkling and creasing at an accelerating rate.
I can only surmise that these developments are offset by the silver at my temples which screams “harmless old fellow, possibly jolly!’ and my tendency to say “I beg your pardon?” multiple times during every conversation, like some cheerful cartoon curmudgeon.
Even my vintage eighties punkish fashion has become adorably anachronistic rather than threatening (note: during the above-referenced pool incident I was wearing a bathing suit, but it was black.)
That’s not to say I couldn’t still reap some of the benefits of RBF by being aggressively unpleasant, but that’s not my style. The universe is telling me that with age comes the opportunity to try new things, and I’m here for it.
I’m going to lean into my newly perceived congeniality.
I’ll tip my Tilley hat to random strangers, and initiate good-natured conversations in line-ups — “That’s some beautiful day out there, ain’t it?”
Small children will giggle and coo at my approach, while their smiling mothers waggle disapproving fingers and say “No hard candy today, Mr. Metzger! We’re on our way to the dentist!”
A jovial sun will shine benignly on my newly merry countenance.
This is my future, without resting bitch face, and I embrace it.
Wish me luck.
