Let’s face it, some of us were simply not built for the performative cheerfulness that society insists upon. You know the drill: a casual nod, a polite hello, and the obligatory upturn of lips to signal, Yes, I, too, am a functioning human and not a reclusive vampire.
But what if your face refuses to cooperate? What if your default expression hovers somewhere between mildly inconvenienced and philosophically perplexed? Suddenly, every interaction becomes a high-stakes negotiation between authenticity and social survival.
The Smile Shortage Crisis
You walk into the office. A colleague beams at you like they’ve just won a lifetime supply of free coffee. Your brain short-circuits. Do I smile back? Is this a contractual obligation? What if they think I’m plotting their demise?
You attempt a smile. It feels unnatural, like trying to sneeze on command. The corners of your mouth twitch weakly, approximating something between a grimace and a silent cry for help. The colleague’s grin falters. You have failed the Human Interaction Protocol.
The Curse of the Resting ‘Why Are You Talking to Me’ Face
Strangers mistake your neutral expression for hostility. Cashiers, baristas, random uncles at family gatherings, all seem personally offended by your inability to summon a spontaneous grin. Why so serious? they ask, as if joy were a switch you forgot to flip.
You consider explaining: Listen, my face is in energy-saving mode. Smiling on demand drains my social battery faster than a dying phone . But instead, you mutter something about just thinking and shuffle away, forever branded as that intense person.
The Great Smile Conspiracy
Who decided that baring one’s teeth in a ritualistic display was the universal language of goodwill? Dolphins do it, and they’re known manipulators. Monkeys do it as a threat. Yet here we are, expected to flash our pearly whites at every passerby like overenthusiastic sales reps for humanity.
Perhaps non-smilers are the last bastion of truth in a world drowning in performative pleasantries. Or maybe we’re just tired. Either way, if you see me on the street and I don’t grin like a game show host, know this: it’s not you. It’s me. And my face’s refusal to participate in this charade.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go practice my polite-but-not-creepy half-smile in the mirror. Wish me luck, or at least don’t take it personally if I fail.
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