At this point, everyone has heard of RBF, or “resting bitch face.” Everyone knows how it’s a terrible plight that causes lots of confusion for those it affects, what with them being on the receiving end of judgment and preconceived notions that the RBF-afflicted hate everyone and/or have never felt joy a day in their life. It’s impossible to control, and I feel greatly for anyone struggling with their RBF, especially because I have recently found myself diagnosed with a similar and lesser known affliction: RDF.
Now, you’re probably asking yourself what exactly is RDF and why haven’t you heard of it? RDF stands for “resting devastated face” and you haven’t ever heard of this term because I made it up.
You see, I recently noticed a trend: as I trekked to and from classes, minding my own business, people would stop me to ask me if I was OK. “Of course,” I would reply, “about as OK as anyone could be on their way to sit through sociology, or as it has come to be known to me: an hour of white boys trying feebly to conceive of their own privilege.” Then I would laugh uncomfortably and carry on my merry way (or as merry as one can be at Truman at any given time).
When it first started happening, I never thought twice about it. Maybe people were just really concerned about my mental state? Maybe these strangers were somehow reading my inner most thoughts and wanted to help me address them? Maybe someone was just playing an extremely elaborate prank? But as it kept happening more and more often, I realized there must be something wrong with me.
Then the Snapchats started. Suddenly, every other picture I received was a grainy image of me walking through campus, the text across the image: “omg why are u so sad???” or “are u okay??” or “wtf who peed in your cereal this morning??”
It was then that I understood what was going on. Just like my friends who had been diagnosed with RBF and were constantly bombarded with people wondering why they were always so mad, I myself was being bombarded with concerned friends and strangers wondering how I was doing. Suddenly, every time someone had asked me why I looked so sad came into startling focus. At work, at parties, in class, watching movies, listening to music, breathing. It appeared that my existing simply made people I didn’t even know concerned about my well-being.
It had to be my face. It had to be RDF.
Since discovering my affliction, I have achieved much more clarity in my life. I finally have answers for questions like, “Why do people keep asking me if my bulky headphones are blasting the cries of anguished young children when I’m actually listening to One Direction?”
I’m hoping that by coming forward and sharing my story as someone afflicted with RDF, more people may find answers for themselves. But mostly, I’m hoping that explaining my uncontrollable plight will at least get people to understand that I’m not actually always on the verge of tears. No, my dog didn’t just die. No, I didn’t just lose my entire iTunes library. It’s literally just my face.
