R.B.F

Here I sit in my other favorite place to write -- the local B&N cafe.  I'm such a cliche.  Between my location, my MacBook, and my black nail polish, my husband would be making lots of hipster jokes at this point (he's got a million of them.)  I think he's in denial, though.  If anybody in this family has hipster tendencies, it's him.  I love him anyway.

So, my other favorite place to write is my little nook in the guest room.  I have a sprawling desk upstairs, but it's a room I share with my husband and every piece of junk that doesn't have a home elsewhere.  I simply can't work in that kind of chaos.  It's really kind of crazy because B&N isn't exactly the quietest or most visually soothing place these days, but it's different somehow.  It's somebody else's chaos.  In my strange little mind, that makes a huge difference.  I can block it all out (with the assistance of my earbuds) and crank out work like a machine.  And sometimes the change of venue makes a real difference in how I write.

Of course, when you write in public -- especially as a woman -- you risk inviting the attention of others (a benefit of the home workspace -- it has a door.)  This is where my spectacular case of Resting Bitch Face comes in handy.  I can repel others subconsciously just by looking like myself.  Actually, this particular affliction has served me well over the years.  For the most part when I'm out in public, I want to be left alone.  I don't want to chat. I don't want to hear about your grandchildren or complain about the long wait at the doctor's office, and I especially don't want to explain what I'm reading or writing.  Enter the snarling bitterness that is my natural expression.

You know what cancels out Resting Bitch Face, though?  Having a four year old.  A gregarious four year old.  A cute one.  And just like that,  her inability to pass a stranger without speaking becomes my problem.  If I have an adorably friendly child, I must be a charming extrovert regardless of my facial expression, right?

Ummm, no.

Kiddo has killed my anonymity, my invisibility.  So it's been a learning process, a season of growth, as the touchy-feelys would say.  I'm learning not to stare blankly at people who speak to me in grocery store lines.  I paint that smile on my face that I fear mostly looks like a grimace of excruciating pain, but oh well.  Turns out I'm not a hipster so much as I am just a misanthrope. Or maybe I just don't like idle conversation.  I suck at it, and I have no desire to master that particular skill.  You know those people who only speak when they have something meaningful to say?  I love those people.  I aspire to be those people.  In the meantime, you can talk to my child...she has enough to say for both of us.