Dick On Face

Dick On Face
What It’s Like to Live With Chronic Resting Dick Face
I am not predisposed to joy. It’s just a fact of life
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I am not predisposed to joy. It’s just a fact of life, the same way the sky is blue, the earth is round, and large jars of mayonnaise are terrifying. I chalk it up to my natural state being one of complete and utter indifference, a condition formed by approximately thirty years of being unimpressed, disappointed, and generally let down by many things, from relationships to unworthy meals to luxury sedans. The lasting and permanent side effect of this? Chronic Resting Dick Face (CRDF), a syndrome originally diagnosed for women as “Resting Bitch Face” by the Internet and later found in a grumpy cat. Of course, like many maladies of the human race and face, it does not discriminate by gender. It’s known to cause wild assumptions that it’s bearer is contemptuous, annoyed, frustrated, or angry with no real basis.
Life with CRDF is no picnic, of course. I remember I met a colleague of mine who works at a fashion magazine that rhymes with DOGUE. After being introduced and having a few drinks, she confessed, “I’ve seen you around, and thought ‘Man, that guy is angry.'” That’s not verbatim, but it’s close enough. And if she didn’t say exactly that, somebody else in my past certainly had. CRDF makes meeting people difficult. As much as I’d long to be one of those sunny people that’s always ready with a smile, no matter how bad the coffee is or how fake the silver lining may be, I simply subscribe to the idea that there’s no reason to smile about something ordinary, a circumstance in which this old colleague would always see me. That kind of behavior is reserved for people who had ridiculous quotes like “*SMiLE at the o r d i n a r y *” in their AIM profiles.
That’s not to say I never smile, or that I can’t appreciate the simple beauty of everyday things, but I reserve the physical manifestation of happiness for when I’m actually happy—elated, even. In the grander scheme of life, yes, I am happy, and have plenty to be happy about when all things are considered (#blessed). But is it required of a “happy” person to screw their face into a smile at all hours of the day? It certainly shouldn’t be. Just because I (and many others) don’t go parading around Manhattan like some grinning idiot doesn’t relegate me to the abjectly miserable.
In truth, I find those with a constant grin on their face disturbing. Me and my unamused face assume that those with such permanent bliss are either chemically imbalanced or at the very least, self-medicated. Why are you so damn happy to be waiting in line? To be eating a sad lunch? To be completely and utterly—to borrow a term from 10 Things I Hate About You—whelmed? For my bitchy and dicky brethren, I like to think that we, as a group, understand that emotions are meant to be used honestly. A smile should be worth it.
Though I defend my condition, it’s not without its price. Aside from the sarcastic, “You look so happy,” or the telephoned “Why is John so miserable?” there are some real (read: not really) problems to face. Nobody wants to talk to somebody who they assume is unhappy, or worse, downright mean. You are quite literally the death of the party, as opposed to the bright, shiny, grinning life of it. It makes social situations with strangers and light-acquaintances (often demanded by urban life and career) even more taxing than usual. Beyond that, there are professional repercussions. As anybody who’s got CRDF will tell you, it can be alarming how much more well-liked and appreciated the happy, alarmingly-bubbly coworker who sits next to you is. My brother warned me of the fallout of CRDF in the workplace, cautioning that while it’s not necessarily harmful, it’s not exactly helpful, either.
To that end, I have tried to remedy it on my own. I have actually gone to such ridiculous lengths as to remind myself to smile more on the street, in the office, or whenever I can. Do you know how ridiculous it feels to do that? How degrading it is to force a chuckle at the most inane office chatter? It’s absurd. But nevertheless, I did it. And the results were what you would expect—people were generally reciprocal of my grins. It felt good! But it felt dirty, wrong, and unnatural at the same time. Eventually, I found myself forgetting to smile, which isn’t all together shocking considering it was usually fake. I prefer to be up front. So I stopped, or at least, I’m attempting to find some sort of happy medium. (Ha.) In the meantime, you’ll only see my fangs flash when I accomplish a great feat of strength, get behind the wheel of a really beautiful fast car, or when you cancel our drinks plans. In other words, when I’m excited.
(Ed Note: Don’t ever tell me to smile)
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