That stands for Bitchy Resting Face, since you asked.

This morning, someone asked how I was, and I said, “Fine. The usual.”

“And what’s the usual? Miserable?”

Now isn’t that just the correct thing to say to someone to “cheer them up”, assuming that they are, in fact, miserable. Ask how they are, accuse them of looking glum, then tell them “You should smile more!”

I told this person I’d rather smile when it was genuine, and I didn’t believe in going around with a daft grin on my face just to make her feel better.

“You’re accusing me of having a daft grin?!”

“No, I was just saying that I’d rather my smiles were-”

“You are! You just accused me of having a daft grin!”

So, as well as being miserable, I’m also accusing other people of looking stupid. Way to misread the situation entirely and put the blame for whatever went wrong on me.

The fact is, I am cursed with a Bitchy Resting Face. Not that I look upon it as a curse. That’s just the way my facial muscles go when I’m at rest. It takes muscle effort to smile. Yes, to frown, too, but I’m not referring to occasions when I’m actually upset or angry. I’m talking about the absence of an inane, groundless smile, being taken for misery.

And quite frankly, I’m amazed that people are stupid enough to think that accusing me of looking miserable is a good cure for that very (imagined) misery. Cure? No – it actually causes anger and upset.

“You should smile more – you have a lovely smile!”

All the more lovely because when it happens, you know it’s genuine. I refuse to go around with a forced smile on my face just to fit in with someone else’s preconceived idea that if you are not smiling, you’re miserable.

And let’s face it – if I were unhappy about something, would telling me to plaster on a smile do anything to remedy that situation? No. It would take effort that would be better spent on solving the actual problem.

But still, people today seem to be content with things looking a certain way, never mind what’s going on under the surface.

It’s enough to bring on my B. A. F.

That’s Bitchy Angry Fists, to you.