From what I’ve been told, I’m not the most approachable person at the best of times.
And today I am cranky as fuck.
I can feel the utter distain radiating from my face.
And that wouldn’t normally be a problem. Usually the only recipient of my glare is my laptop or my TV.
But right now, I am sitting in the waiting room of the rec center where my daughter is having ballet lessons surrounded by Ballet Moms.
I usually am home with our son for her lesson. My husband usually brings her.
And usually when I am out in public, due to my heightened sense of propriety, and my desire for other people to be comfortable taking precedent over everything else, I conscientiously transform my resting bitch face into something more acceptable by the ballet moms (or whom have you) and keep a few lines of small talk handy. I try to fit in, blend in.
Sitting here I feel like I should care about the current status of my face. That I usually would care. I just don’t.
This is a new feeling for me. Most of my life I had just one role. Keep everyone else happy. Mom not well? Make her smile. Dad had a rough day at work? Rub his back. Older sister was a manipulative bitch to me growing up? Make my little sister’s childhood go smooth as silk. Best friend asked me to marry him? Sure, I can do that. Abusive cheating asshole wants to keep me from having friends or talking to my family. Can’t let him get upset now, can I?
A lot of this is fodder for future posts. There’s some deep seated shit coming to surface in this Rec Center waiting room.
But those topics, feminism, authenticity, alignment, and sometimes considering my own needs first, are going to wait for another time.
Because here I am, surrounded by ballet moms, not caring about the glower I’m spreading across the room.
Basically, it comes down to this. Because of who I have been and who I still am, just sitting in this room, conscious of my bitch face and not doing anything about it, is an act of rebellion.
You hear that? I’m a rebel.