My husband walked in the other day and asked me, “Have you heard of this girl thing called ‘resting bitch face’?”
“Yes hon. I have. It’s when you look angry even when you’re just… chill, or thinking, or whatever.”
“I just heard about this.”
I laughed. “Really? It’s been around for a while.” I considered before asking, “Do I have resting bitch face?”
He gave me a half smile, as if weighing whether or not his answer might rock the marital boat.
“I do, don’t I?”
He laughed nervously. “Yeah, yeah, you do.”
“My sister does too. People always think we’re mad or scary or whatever.”
The truth is, I’m usually laughing behind that resting bitch face. I find the world to be a pretty damned amusing place, though a lot of people don’t approve of my warped, morbid, and perhaps a little too honest, sense of humor. So I keep it to myself most the time. Well, I try and fail, actually.
My lack of filter gets me into trouble quite often. Especially when I have a resting bitch face. I think I’m being funny and laughing with people, but because I look like, well… a bitch, folks mistake my intentions.
Lack of filter mixed with resting bitch face. It’s a problem.
My dark sense of humor, though, isn’t as problematic. It helps me get through life in all it’s strange, warped, and amusing glory.
Like the time I gave a chick mouth to mouth.
I’d left my husband in charge of some very fragile, tiny, three day old, baby silkie chickens. When I got home from work, one was missing. We searched and searched, wondering if my son had let it out of the cage. When I finally discovered it, it was face down in the water dish.
My poor husband was heartbroken.
I rubbed the little guy, hoping it would cough up the water. It didn’t.
“Give it mouth to mouth,” my husband insisted.
So I gave a very tiny, mostly dead chick mouth to mouth. I breathed air into it, rubbed it, and when nothing happened. He wouldn’t give up, though, and demanded I do it again. After a while of trying to inflate a the chick like a balloon, I finally called it. It was dead.
My husband’s very sweet, if misguided attempt to save the little thing still makes me smile. Being able to laughing about the ridiculousness of the situation makes it easier to handle.
And when life gets overwhelming, I have to remember to laugh at myself.
I know I’m a mess. If I admit to and laugh at my failings, it takes the power away from those who would like to point out my flaws to tear me down. Owning my faults and flaws puts me back in the driver’s seat. Even though I’m slightly out of control and probably taking all the wrong turns. At least I’m the one driving.
I’m flaky and crazy. I’m dramatic and neurotic. My internal clock and memory are a complete disaster now that I work nights half the week. I lose track of days more often than I like to admit.
The most potentially humiliating memory loss incident was when I managed to convince myself I had forgotten to take out my menstrual cup and somehow managed to lose it internally. After digging around… up there… as best I could and coming up empty handed, I was considering a trip to the doctor’s office.
Needless to say, I was quite relieved when I found the darned thing tucked away behind some bottles in the back of my medicine cabinet.
But I can’t help but amuse myself imagining what that doctor’s visit would have been like.
Doctor: “So, what are you here for today?”
Me: “I think I lost a rubber cup up my… vagina. I can’t seem to get it out. I looked online, used all sorts of different positions, and I just can’t find it.”
Doctor raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure you left it in?”
Me: “I can’t find it anywhere, and I don’t remember taking it out.”
Doctor: “Well, that would be a problem. I guess I can take a look. I’ll set up the examine table and leave you to change.”
Doctor leaves, I put on the fabulous paper outfit and climb up into the stirrups. Doctor comes back in to poke around in my nether region for a while.
Doctor: “Everything looks normal. As in, you’re literally all clear. No menstrual cup hidden up there.”
Me: “Are you sure?”
Doctor: “Yes I’m sure.”
Awkwardly finish up the fruitless appointment. Leave thinking that that my poor gynecologist now thinks I’m just the type of desperate girl who gets a thrill from having a doctor poke around her vajayjay for the heck of it.
Go home and frantically search through the house for the missing menstrual cup, praying my dog or my kid hadn’t found it and decided it was a toy. Wonder briefly if i might find it chewed up and buried in the yard.
Wonder if I should change doctors. Decide that it will seem more suspicious if I change to another doctor to torment with my weird fetish. As if gynecological appointments aren’t awkward enough as it is.
Find cup in bathroom, where I put it away after cleaning it.
Thank my stars, or karma, or whatever that I found the darned thing. Then wonder just how bad a menstrual cup left in place for an unknown amount of time would have smelled. Thank whatever yet again that a doctor didn’t find the cup that was never actually lost in parts unknown.
Become even more thankful that despite my fucked up memory, I still manage to properly groom, clean and remove things as needed.
So now you know what really goes on behind my resting bitch face.
I’m amusing myself with my dark, warped, and morbid sense of humor. Or maybe I just have the hampster dance song through my head.
Probably the latter.