*Resting B*tch Face—I first heard this four or five years ago. My blogger friend Robyn used the term, talking about herself. She didn’t use the RBF acronym; she used the whole phrase. Thank God she did. I think that’s the last time I ever heard anyone say it. Just in time too. Ever since, and I must say quite frequently, people are all RBF this and RBF that. I would have run into countless awkward scenarios where I nod along pretending I know what someone is talking about even though I really have no idea.
Sorry, look at me, I assumed you also know what I’m talking about. Resting B*tch Face is the propensity to hold your neutral, unanimated face looking like you’re about to go Karen on someone. A perpetual frown, maybe a sneer, certainly a scowl. The sort of face others don’t want to approach for fear of attack.
Years ago, when companies were just starting to cobble together rudimentary websites as marketing tools, a part time employee named Kristen volunteered to maintain my company’s website. I didn’t know Kristen yet. I had never seen her before. She met in an open area with two of my coworkers listening to their website requirements. As they talked, she held a light smile with her mouth and eyes. When they finished and Kristen left, I remarked “Wow, isn’t she a ray of sunshine.” I meant this sincerely and not in the sarcastic way it was taken. After I cleared up the misunderstanding, my coworkers agreed.
A few years later, Kristen was a regular in a spin class I attended. While everyone else wore a look of tortured anguish on their face, Kristin appeared serene, contented. Kristen’s face looked like she was sipping tea on her back deck on a fine June morning. Everyone likes Kristen.
When my wife Susan and I still lived in Washington, DC, every now and then one of us would take a cab home from whatever activity we attended. We lived on the northwestern edge of the city, a long way from the hubbub of downtown. A cab ride took twenty or more minutes. Whenever Susan walked in the house, she told me the story of her cabdriver. “He emigrated from Cairo three years ago, his wife and two children plan to move to the states next May, he’s helping his brother paint his apartment on Saturday. Oh, and he tried that new Greek place on R Street today.”
The totality of what I heard from my cab drivers was “Where do you want to go?” And later, “That’ll be $7.50.”
I never understood why people opened up to Susan so much more than me. It still happens today. A couple of months ago, Susan, our daughter Sophie and I walked the length of a long pier in Marquette Michigan. By the time we reached the end, Susan knew the life story of the man and his mother who walked next to us—where they moved from and why, his profession, and even how they feel about the snowy Marquette winters. Susan tried to draw me into the conversation, but people just don’t want to talk with me.
I have a serious case of RBF. Although I’m not sure I’d call mine a b*tch face. A bored face is probably a better description. I don’t look like I might bite your head off, I simply look like I don’t care. Susan prompts me sometimes. “Smile with your eyes, Jeff.” I do fine when reminded, but that misses the point. It’s my resting face that needs to be friendly. It’s supposed to be effortless. “When you force a smile with only your mouth, you look a little insane.”
Other advice from my family members:
You need to look at people when they talk to you so they know you’re listening.
And
Dad, when the cashier says have a nice day, the proper response is “You, too,” not “I will.”
Am I making progress? Maybe, I don’t know. I met with Comcast this morning for an installation at one of our library branches. I greeted the technician in a friendly fashion, and I tried to keep a pleasant face. We didn’t talk about his family or his dinner plans, but he seemed to genuinely like me. At one point while we waited for his home office to activate a line, I asked, “Is it still raining out?”
“Off and on. I hope it stops. I want to go golfing tomorrow.”
Look at me, I had a conversation! As he packed up his tools, I said, “We’re doing two more branches over the next few days. Maybe I’ll see you again?” And I smiled.
He smiled back. “Probably, see you then.”
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Previously Published on jefftcann.com and is republished on Medium.
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Photo credit: iStock