Monday, May 20, 2002

I can’t cheer up

When the third Abercrombie-clad clone told me to "cheer up", I knew it was time to call it a night. I swallowed the last few molecules of vodka in the drink I'd been nursing for half an hour and hit the stairs.

The truth is, I hadn't been in a bad mood at all. I was thoroughly enjoying the scenery, scouting the packed dance floor, nodding to friends, appreciating the occasional cruisy gaze, all from an unusually choice vantage point alongside the bar. But three men -- strangers, mind -- had gone out their way to tell me I should smile and it was pissing me off.

Apparently there is something about my default mien that erroneously communicates sadness or dissatisfaction when, in fact, nothing could be farther from the truth. Most of the time, I'm an exceedingly happy person, cheery to the point of schmaltz, as upbeat as they come. My aspect, though, seldom betrays this and so, well-meaning though they may be, strangers and friends alike feel compelled to make me grin.

I am not prone to great displays of emotion, one way or the other. You must work very hard, indeed, to make me laugh and, if you see me crying or explicitly frowning, you can be assured of the feeling behind either extreme.

But my face at rest (and I have confirmed this with mirrors and the review of several years worth of photographs) is non-committal, neither elated nor blue. If anything, I can probably be described as appearing "pensive," although in truth I am likely thinking of nothing in particular.

I have usually answered requests to "cheer up" with a genial reassurance that I'm in quite a good mood, thank you, and on occasion have even invoked an awfully fake grin solely to put others at their ease. It's happening far too often, though, and I'm afraid I'm leaning more toward answering them with malediction rather than manners.

Which probably won't help matters at all.